


Begin to Remember (or, the life and death of Nathan Petrelli)

by fits_in_frames



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Big Bang Challenge, F/M, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-20
Updated: 2009-09-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after Nathan Petrelli dies at Kirby Plaza, Peter discovers a box of memories at their family summer home in the middle of planning an operation to take down Sylar once and for all. This is the story of what happened before, and what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (Claire)

**Author's Note:**

> _this is the story of how we begin to remember_  
>  _this is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein_  
>  _after the dream of falling and calling your name out_  
>  _these are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain_  
>  {paul simon // under african skies}  
> 
> 
> Written for [](http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/profile)[**heroes_bigboom**](http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/). Trailer made by [](http://mwmm23.livejournal.com/profile)[**mwmm23**](http://mwmm23.livejournal.com/) can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_s3TJ5fcPQU). Spoilers through "Four Months Ago".

April 24, 2016.  
_New York._

Just before midnight, he appears in the alley that he left only a few minutes ago. Claire has had just enough time to hide herself in the dark crevasses of the city like he told her to, and for her leg to fall asleep underneath her. She feels the air move out of the way for him before she hears his footsteps coming towards her. She's gotten used to it by now. She looks up: he's walking with purpose and anger - two things that make him very, very dangerous.

"Did it work?" she asks, tentatively, standing up, feeling the nerves in her leg repair themselves a little slower than she's used to.

He stops three feet in front of her, counting the bullets in his gun. He looks up briefly, bewildered. "No," he says plainly, and reloads the magazine.

"You need me, then?" She absently rests her hand on her own gun at her waist while he reholsters his.

"Guess I do." He pauses, adjusts his belt, then mumbles, "Sorry I doubted you, Claire."

She lets her mouth quirk up at the corners a little. Not really a smile, but not nothing, either. It's one of the many things he's taught her. "It's okay," she says, "it was worth a shot." Somewhere, a clock tower signals a new day and she subconsciously looks towards it, just for a moment. "We'd better hurry."

"Yeah," he says, turning away from her. "Just give me a minute, will you?"

"But we've already wasted--"

"Just a minute, Claire. Sixty seconds. It won't make a difference, trust me."

She doesn't respond, only leaves him to his thoughts.

Truth is, he still isn't used to time travelling--it makes his legs a little jumpy, but mostly, it's just _weird_. He sees time differently--like a mountain range, all at once, though it's not all in focus. He's been to the end of this day, and it's not pretty, but here he is, standing on solid ground, talking to a girl who two hours ago (only in his consciousness, according to this timeline, but his head spins when he thinks about it, so he doesn't) was dying. Indestructible Claire, dying in his arms, and yet it's _his_ chest that still hurts. He takes a deep breath, thumbs the safety on his gun, turns around, and exits the alley. Claire's waiting for him.

"Ready?" she asks, stepping out onto the sidewalk from her resting place against the wall.

"Let's go," he says without stopping for her. She follows without another word.

Peter Petrelli has lived this day four times through, and he's about to live it a fifth.


	2. Part One (Simon)

April 26, 2016.  
 _Odessa._

They had to get out of New York, and fast, when Peter realized the plan wasn't going to work, not the way he planned--not in this timeline, nor in any others. (There are some things, he learned a long time ago, that stay the same no matter what he does.)

At least he and Claire were safe, though he's not sure he could say the same of fifteen Secret Service agents. They were just doing their jobs, it's not their fault their boss was helping to harbor a murderer. He just hoped a few of the targets actually got blown up, too.

He eats something (he's not really sure what it is, but he's hungry and it's in his pocket and edible) while Claire showers in cell #3. The facility below Primatech is long past its prime, but faulty plumbing is still better than none at all. He hears something out in the hallway, so he goes invisible and walks out to investigate. Claire calls to him, but he tells her he'll be back in just a second. There are two people coming towards him, and he shoots a blast of electricity at each one of them--not to hurt them, just enough to stun them so he can get the advantage. He learned long ago not to hesitate. He approaches them as they lay on the floor.

The girl clutches her arm and squeezes her eyes shut; the boy--average height and broad-shouldered--holds his ankle. They're both dressed plainly and younger than Claire, though they're just past the awkward phase of acne and bony joints and transitioning into twenty-somethings. It's only when Peter goes to check on them that he sees the boy's face, and even in the shadows, he can tell he's got his father's mouth.

"Simon," he whispers.

"Hi Uncle Peter," Simon chokes out. Peter wordlessly helps him up into a sitting position and heals his ankle, then carefully removes the girl's hand from her arm and heals her, too.

"I thought you were dead," Peter says to his nephew as the girl sits up on her own. "Heard about your mom and your brother…" He stops, touches Simon's knee with what he hopes is comfort. "I am so sorry."

Simon looks up at him and mumbles, "Well, I'm still here." He smiles, a little sadly, and a shiver goes up Peter's spine.

As they stand up, he remembers all the precautions and barriers he's put up around Primatech - scrambling satellite signals, mainly, making them virtually invisible - so he asks the only logical question: "How did you find me?"

"You can thank this one for that," Simon says, indicating his female companion.

Peter finally gets a good look at her as she stands up and brushes herself off. She's tall and slender, and despite her pale complexion and mousy-brown hair, she's strikingly beautiful. He feels a little swell of pride that his nephew not only survived Sylar, but also has excellent taste in women. When she finally looks at him, her face lights up, her almond-shaped eyes going wide and her bow-mouth spreading into a genuine grin.

"Peter Petrelli," she says, a little breathlessly.

Peter nods his head, not used to people smiling when they say his name. "Live and in person."

She grabs his hand with both of hers, still grinning. "I thought--I almost didn't believe Simon--"

"I'm sorry," he says, cupping his free hand gently over the top of hers, "who are you?"

The girl steps back, face drawn a little, but doesn't let go. "I'm Molly. Molly Walker."

"Molly Walker," Peter repeats, and then remembers. "As in Walker System Molly Walker?"

"That's me," she says, blushing. Without warning, a hand grabs her from the shadows behind her, and puts a gun to her head.

"Who are you?" Claire snarls. "How did you find us?"

Peter puts up his newly-freed hands in front of him to calm her down. "Claire. Claire, it's okay. They're okay." Claire reluctantly releases her, then pushes past the newcomers to stand beside Peter. She smells like medicine, but at least she's clean. It's more than he can say for himself.

"You're Claire Bennet?" Simon blurts out after a moment.

"Yeah," Claire says. "How do you know my name?"

"Everybody knows your name," Simon says, and Peter can almost hear the stars in his eyes. He's not sure how this conversation will end.

"Claire, this is Molly Walker," Peter says, going for the non-confusing option first. "Molly, this is Claire."

"Nice to finally meet you," Molly says, taking Claire's hand like she took Peter's only moments ago. Claire half-sneers at her, but, recognizing her name, is at least polite.

"And this is my nephew, Simon." He can feel Claire's heart skip a beat on the word _nephew_. "Simon, this is Claire." He pauses, though he's not really sure why. "Your sister."

Simon, who had stepped forward, hand extended, stops in his tracks and stares at his uncle. "I don't have a sister," he says, matter-of-factly.

"Well, half-sister." He doesn't know what else to say, so he lets the information just hang in the air. He's surprised when Claire is the first one to speak.

"Nathan was my dad, too," she says, softly.

Simon looks to Peter, who smiles just a little, and then with a giant grin practically tackles Claire to the ground but she's quick on her feet and easily keeps her balance. Her younger half-brother is at least six inches taller than her, and he's clearly not letting go any time soon, so after a moment, she hugs him back. He exhales as if he'd been holding his breath in for four years, and Molly, who until now seemed to have disappeared into the shadows, sniffs quietly. She nods at Peter, and he knows she understands. She, too, has lost everything.

After a minute or so, Peter clears his throat, and Simon breaks the hug, muttering an apology as he steps back. Claire reaches up and touches his face, just where his jaw and chin meet.

"It's okay," she murmurs, and seems to be unsure of what emotion to show, but before she can choose, the moment is over. Peter ushers all of them into the former prison, carefully constructing barriers in the air as they leave the hallway. He doesn't want any more surprises.

Once they're safe inside the holding rooms, he offers them things that used to be chairs and turns to his nephew. "So, not that it's not great to see you, but why are you here?"

He assures Simon that the facility is secure (though not as secure as before; with the outer security breached they'll have to leave soon), and Simon explains: they have information on Sylar. The name itself piques Peter's interest, since he hasn't heard it in a long time, at least not out of someone's mouth.

"All we know right now is that he's going to be transported between Baltimore and DC some time in the fall," Molly explains. "We don't know details, but our sources are very reliable and they're working around the clock."

"Your sources?" Peter asks. Claire sighs, a little too loudly. Peter turns to her. "Are we boring you, Claire?"

"Why don't you just read their minds?" she asks, gesturing at the other two. "It's a lot safer _and_ a lot easier."

"For the same reason I don't read your mind to find out if you slept well. It's rude. Just because you can--"

"--doesn't mean you should," she finishes. "Yeah, I know." She settles back against her wall.

"We, uh--" Molly says, unsure as to whether the conversation is over, but continues when Peter turns his attention to her. "We have a network."

"We?" Peter really wants to break his own rule and read their minds, but this is his nephew and a girl he barely knows, and he's fairly certain there are a lot of things he doesn't want to know about them.

"The underground," Simon says.

"The underground?" Claire sits up, suddenly very interested.

Simon smiles at her. "Still going strong."

"Anybody want to fill me in?" Peter's confused, but not shocked that Claire's been keeping a secret from him all these years. He's careful about reading her mind, too.

"When I ran away for the first time," she begins, "I ended up in L.A. and a group of us found each other--some with abilities, some without. We tried to find Sylar. We wanted to be heroes." She's got that look in her eye like she gets when she talks about Noah. It's comforting and heartbreaking all at once, but it passes and Peter doesn't mention it. She wets her lips. "But we got broken up. Last I heard a few of them ended up in different cities--New York, Chicago, Vegas, and Tokyo, I think."

"Paris, Boston, Johannesburg, and Mumbai, too," Molly says excitedly. "We're based in Boston."

"Boston, huh?" Peter says, trying to figure out exactly how he's going to get the four of them out of Texas as soon as possible. It's getting less and less safe by the moment. And then it occurs to him, so he asks, "How did you guys get here?"

"I, um," Simon says, shyly, quietly, looking up at Molly before he continues. "I ran."

"Speedster," Peter says, grinning a little. "Of course. Your dad would be proud."

Simon looks at him a little incredulously and pushes on. "So you know why we need you, right Uncle Peter?"

"Yeah," Peter sighs. "I know why." Even for him, Sylar's nearly impossible to take on, let alone do what he thinks this underground is planning. Besides, he has a reputation to maintain. His throat tightens.

Something in Molly's pocket vibrates. She pulls out what looks like an old solar-powered calculator, mostly because that's exactly what it is. She presses something on the keypad, and then looks up at Peter, who's been watching the whole process intently. Her nose goes pink and she holds up the calculator. "Meeting tomorrow. Got coordinates and passwords." She pauses, and when the confused look on Claire's face doesn't go away, she continues. "It's safer to communicate with older devices. We have a guy, he can send a message to anything with wiring. It's kind of cool, actually."

"Can we come?" Claire asks plainly, gathering up her pack. She's used to being ready to go at a moment's notice.

Molly suddenly seems uneasy. "To the meeting? I don't know if that's such a good--"

"Of course," Simon says, cutting her off. "They'll be thrilled to meet you." He's grinning like he just won a prize. Maybe he did.

Molly sighs, defeated. "Okay, okay. We should get back tonight, though." Simon nods, and then goes slightly white when she continues, "I think I should go with Peter."

Simon tenses up at this suggestion, and only after Peter says he'll take very good care of her and she touches his arm reassuringly does he acquiesce. Peter pretends not to notice the anxious look in his eye as he takes Claire's free hand. "You ready?"

Claire nods sharply, readjusts her pack, and then they're gone, a rush of air following them.

Peter shoulders his pack as Molly walks towards him. "Have you ever teleported before?" he asks.

Her eyes go wide. "They can track you."

"They can't track me." He forgets, sometimes, that he has to explain himself to others. Claire can practically read his mind at this point, and he can count on one hand the number of people he's actually conversed with in the last year. "I need to know where we're going," he says after letting her absorb the fact that he can make himself undetectable.

She takes a deep breath. "Right, right. Uh," she offers up her hands "what do you need?"

"Just one hand." She holds out her left hand. He cups it between both of his, and extracts the information from her. She's got a lot of defenses up, but lets them down a little for him. "Thanks," he says when he opens his eyes, and the tips of her ears go red. He pats his own arm. "Hold on tight, it might be a little bumpy." She wraps her arms around his, and then they're not in Texas anymore.

 

_Boston._

"Well that was weird," Molly says when they reappear in a dark alley. "I'm used to traveling with Simon. He's a bit more..."

"Windy?" Peter finishes, stepping out to the main sidewalk and trying to determine where they are in the city of Boston. He hasn't been here in a while. "Teleportation's much cleaner. More dangerous, but cleaner."

"I guess it would be stupid to ask you how you avoid detection." She crosses her arms, looking much older than he knows she is.

He smirks at her. "Yeah, it would."

She nods, understanding, and grabs his arm as he starts to wander into the thin evening crowd, tips her head to the side slightly. "It's this way. Didn't want to take us straight there."

"Of course," he says, nodding. He understands the need for secrecy. She walks quickly, but doesn't appear to be in a hurry. It's a skill. He walks next to her in silence for a minute before he asks, "How long have you guys been together?" He doesn't worry about tact, and she doesn't seem to mind.

She smiles, a little sadly. "A little over two years. We… we got married last month when Simon turned eighteen."

"Congratulations," Peter says, and he means it.

"Thanks," she says, then without slowing down: "I should warn you, you're kind of a legend."

"A legend," he repeats. It's almost a question, and she almost answers it.

"I don't want to say too much," she says, looking him up and down quickly, "but you might be met with some... skepticism."

"I can handle skepticism," he says, a little defensively.

"Just so you're prepared," she says as an afterthought. Then, turning down another alley and approaching a heavy-looking door, "We're here." She opens the door, bracing herself with her legs. He almost offers to help, but she's halfway inside by the time it crosses his mind, and then it's closing behind them. They're in a long, neutral-colored corridor, one florescent light flickering somewhere between them and a pale-looking man sitting at a black metal desk a few yards away. He can feel the defenses put up around the room next to them, but he can also hear the scores of people inside. Not telepath-proof, then.

At the desk, he meets Henry - barely a man, can't be more than eighteen with his long limbs and acne. He lets Molly pass him after studying her face for a moment. She doesn't introduce Peter, just steps aside.

"What's your deal?" Henry says in an accusatory tone, after studying him for a few seconds, and then makes a dismissive noise. "You supposed to be the Human Sponge or something?"

Peter looks to Molly for help but she's just smiling at the floor, obviously trying to contain herself. He turns back to Henry, thoroughly confused. "I'm sorry?"

"Human Sponge. Your--" he gestures vaguely "--costume. The scar's pretty good, but the rest... it's weak, man. I mean, you've got rusty rivets, your boots are all worn out, your jacket’s patched…" He stops, holds up one hand in a “hold-the-presses” stance. "Do you wear this thing twenty-four-seven?"

Peter stumbles a bit, trying to impress the truth onto this poor young man, but his mental roadblocks are too strong. "I, uh…"

"He's with me," Molly interjects and he's about to thank her when Henry starts laughing at her.

"Really," Henry says, condescendingly; then, turning back to Peter, "Does Simon know you've left him for a forty-something who dresses up like a character in a comic book?"

"I'm thirty-six," Peter says stupidly, because he has no idea what else to say.

Henry calls for Dave to come out and see this. Dave walks out of the door behind the desk; he's shorter and wider than Henry, maybe a year or two older, dark-haired and bespectacled. The proportion of awe to derisiveness in Dave's eyes is slightly higher than Henry's, but not by much.

"Another one, huh?" Dave says, and Henry nods.

"He's with me, Dave," Molly repeats, stepping forward.

Dave holds up a hand to stop her from coming any closer. "Molly, please, we're security, let us handle this." She stops, but scowls and crosses her arms and sticks her hip out, clearly not happy about it. Peter has a feeling these guys are going to get reamed later. He catches her eye, and she smirks evilly. Definitely getting reamed.

Dave steps around the desk, leans against it, crosses his arms and looks up at Peter. "Dude, you can't just put on a costume and expect us to give you access to our facilities." He glances over at Molly. "Even if you have Molly Walker with you." He walks up to Peter, gets within a foot or so, obviously trying to make him uncomfortable. It's not working. "What do you want?"

Henry gets close to him, too, but it still doesn't work. "What are you so happy about?" It's a challenge, but after Peter doesn't respond--doesn't even look at him--he continues his companion's line of thought. "Dude, who are you?"

He turns to Henry and says, "Don't call me dude." He looks him up and down briefly, doesn't expect him to believe what he says next. "And I'm Peter Petrelli."

Henry moves to the other side of the desk, pulls something out of the drawer and tosses it across. It's a comic book. "You're Peter Petrelli?" he asks sarcastically, and it sounds like an accusation. "Peter Petrelli's not _real_."

"When were you born?" Dave blurts out, clearly against Henry's wishes.

"December 23rd, 1979." It's been a long time since he had to remember his own birthday. He leans in to see the book: there's a dark figure with a large, white scar across his face, fire in one hand and ice in the other, against the backdrop of what he's pretty sure is Baltimore. He suddenly realizes he hasn't been there in months.

"That only proves he read the origin story issue," Henry says, but Dave presses on. Molly is obviously amused, but keeps quiet.

Henry backs away a little, holds up his hands. "This is very simple: if you're Peter Petrelli, you can fly." He crosses his arms and waits.

"Dude, no he can't," Dave says after a few seconds, grabbing his friend's arm.

"Uh, yeah he can," Henry says, trying to sound smarter than he probably is. "Didn't you read two-oh-one?"

"Yeah, but I also read two-twenty-four."

Henry's face drops. "Oh, right. Sorry," he says to Peter, who is confused but grateful he doesn't have to prove he hasn't been able to fly since...well, he doesn't even want to think about it.

"Look, you want me to prove it?" Peter asks, finally. Both boys indicate that yes, yes they do. So Peter does. "If you know as much about me as I think you do, then you know I've met Meredith Gordon, and she can do this." He opens his left hand, producing fire. It's a simple mechanism, once you learn how to control it. He continues. "And you should know that I recall abilities by remembering who I got them from or where I was. I've honed my multitasking skills over the years, so I can access three or four at a time. Now, I just met you guys, so this may be a little weak, but…" -" He points his right index finger at his left hand, and a thin stream of water comes out, making the fire smoke. He smirks at Henry, who's staring wide-eyed at it. "Thank you, David," he says, then closes his hands and extinguishes the flame and stops the flow of water. "And Henry," who looks up at the sound of his name, so Peter gets a good look at his face, which immediately manifests his full name, height, weight, and eye color in the back of Peter's mind. "Good ability for a security guard."

Henry doesn't respond, but Dave is practically jumping up and down. "I _told_ you!" he says, punching Henry in the arm. "C-come in!" he sputters breathlessly at Peter, and steps aside. Molly's shoulders relax, and she starts to lead Peter towards the door behind them.

"Richmond's gonna want to meet him," Henry says, still staring and still sounding stunned.

"Of course Richmond's gonna want to meet him, Henry." Molly shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "C'mon," she says to Peter, but Dave grabs his arm.

"You'll be at the meeting tomorrow, right?" There's a hopefulness in his voice Peter hasn't heard in years. It's refreshing.

Peter smiles at him. "Yeah, I will."

Dave smiles widely back at him. "It's a real honor to meet you, Mr. Petrelli."

He takes Dave's hand off his arm and holds it in his. "Call me Peter."

Dave nods eagerly. "Right, right. Peter."

"I'll see you later, then." Dave nods again, and then Molly's tugging on his elbow, opening the door with her other hand.

Once they're inside, she says, "I'm sorry, I didn't know they were gonna be _that_ bad."

They step into a short, dimly-lit corridor with another door at the end. "It's all right," he says; then, raising an eyebrow at her, "Human Sponge?"

"It's pretty terrible, right? At least it's accurate." She smiles at him.

"That it is," he agrees. He suddenly remembers that Simon and Claire probably got there before them; running is less traceable than teleportation, so they may well have just ended up at the front door instead of having to walk the rest of the way. "You think they put Claire through the ringer like that?"

"Probably not. I mean, she founded the organization, she's a little more credible than a man who can do everything."

"And what do they think of Simon? I mean, he has my last name-"

"He doesn't exactly advertise that. I mean, he's a big fan," she says quickly, probably fearing she'd hurt his feelings (she hadn't; he's lived with the name long enough to understand the connotations). "I guess people just think he changed it or something. I have no idea."

Peter nods, then changes the subject. "So who's Richmond?"

Molly grins, a little forced. "We don't exactly have a rigid hierarchy, but if I had to pick out a leader... well, he can organize really well under pressure and he's got charisma coming out the ears."

Peter lets out a short laugh, thinking how that description sounds like someone he knows--someone he knew.

"Simon gets jealous sometimes, but I just tell him, you know, Richmond's a great leader, but I wouldn't want to be with him. Your nephew has nothing to worry about." She opens the door in front of her, and then they're inside.

It's a warehouse, essentially, dimly lit, with platforms and staircases and high windows and people interacting everywhere. It smells old, like sawdust and sweat. It's oddly comforting. There are cubicles to the right, a makeshift tent directly in front of them, and a large open area where two people are breaking down chairs and tables to the left.

"Dinner ended a little while ago," Molly says when she notices where he's looking. "I don't think Richmond's back yet, but let me--Katherine!" A young woman is approaching them: blonde hair, blue eyes, average-looking, and about twenty-five, though her eyes make her seem at least five years older. They greet each other with smiles, but there's an undercurrent of urgency that's only interrupted when Katherine notices Peter.

She nods at him, but speaks to Molly. "Who's this?"

"He's with me," Molly says quickly.

"Does Simon know?"

"Yeah, yeah he does, it's… not like that."

Katherine raises her eyebrows.

"I'm his uncle," Peter says before another question comes up.

Katherine sighs a little as recognition crosses her face, and holds out her hand for Peter to shake. He does. "Of course. It's an honor to meet you. I hope you haven't had too much trouble."

"Just Henry," Molly says, rolling her eyes a little.

"Ah, I'm sorry," Katherine says, but before she can say anymore, Simon approaches from the cubicles, sighing in relief when he sees Molly. She kisses him after assuring him Peter knows. The tips of his ears go red.

"Richmond's not here," he says after a moment.

"Yeah, he'll be back for the meeting tomorrow," Katherine says.

"Right," Molly says, then places her hand over Simon's, still lingering on her arm. "Honey, I need to talk to Katherine for a minute, can you show Peter around?"

Simon looks between the two women, then presses his lips together, nods, and starts walking back towards where he came from. Peter follows.

Once they get out of earshot he asks, "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Simon says dismissively, "just, Katherine was in med school before she…" Peter nods knowingly. "It's complicated."

"I get it," Peter says, sparing his nephew the burden of explanation. "It's not my business anyway."

Simon shows Peter the two main areas of the warehouse: the Floor, where plans are made often, meetings are held occasionally, and meals are always; and the Cubes, flimsy partitions and modified curtains forming rooms barely big enough to fit two small beds. "People usually don't stay for more than a few days, but some people live here." He smiles sadly. "You get used to it." He pauses, and just as Peter's about to say it's all right, he understands, Simon stops in front of a curtain and continues, "I set up Claire in the cube next to me and Molly so people won't really ask questions. Space is kinda tight; I hope you don't mind sharing."

Peter smiles a little and shakes his head. "No, it's fine." He pulls back the curtain and looks inside. Claire is sorting out her belongings on the bed against the right wall. She looks up, a little bewildered, when Peter says _hi Claire_ , then goes back to what she was doing, muttering a hello. He steps inside, places his pack on the other bed.

"Meals are at eight, noon, and six-thirty. Bathrooms are against the south wall--men to the west and women to the east. You have free reign of the place except during meetings or if the alarm goes off--and you'll know if the alarm goes off." Then, as an afterthought, "Dinner ended a while ago, but I think I could find something if you guys--"

"We're fine, thanks," Claire cuts in.

Simon is caught mid-breath, but he nods quickly. "Right, I'll let you get settled, then." He pulls the curtain shut behind him.

They unpack in silence, back-to-back, for a few minutes before Peter finally says, over his shoulder, "You should get to know him." She makes a sound of annoyance and shakes her head. "He's your brother." She turns, sticks her hand on her hip.

"Just because we share some genes doesn't make him my brother."

He turns to face her. "He's all you have left besides me."

"And your mom."

"Right," he mutters, choosing not to mention the dreams he's been having lately. "Just, talk to him. Get to know him."

She sighs, stubbornly, but he knows that means _okay_.

"You should get some sleep," he says after a beat.

"I don't need to sleep," she says. Stubborn, again.

"You've been awake for three days straight."

"So have you." She sounds so young, so immature... so _sixteen years old_. One of the virtues of never growing old: you never grow up, either. "I don't see why we need to sleep at all."

He grabs her arm, mostly in frustration, and she looks up at him, wide-eyed. "What we can do," he says a little more harshly than he intends, "we can't abuse it. Just because you can heal doesn't make you invincible." He leaves off the _I'll force you to sleep if I have to_ , but he has a feeling she heard it anyway.

"Turn around," she says, a little breathlessly. He lets go, but doesn't understand. "I'm getting changed," she explains, "turn around."

He faces the wall behind his bed, rummages around in his bag searching for something resembling a toothbrush, and suddenly feels the need to tell Claire, "I'm going to the summer house tomorrow."

"I'm done," she announces. He turns back, and she's dressed in some old, torn, dirty-looking clothes she sleeps in sometimes, when she sleeps at all. He thinks they might have belonged to Noah. She continues the conversation, though, asking, "To see your mom?" as if there were any other reason to go there.

"I need something from her." He's surprised at himself, giving out this much information, but this is Claire, and he can trust her. To a point.

"But you're not gonna tell me what it is, right?" she says, knowingly. They're both used to these cryptic conversations; healing means making her forget is pointless, but he hates leaving her completely in the dark. It's a balancing act on top of a tightrope, but they've perfected it, somehow.

"You know I can't," is all he says, and she nods, then pushes past him to go wash her face.

He takes the moment of privacy to change into something to sleep in, also, when he hears someone arguing on the other side of the wall, where Simon and Molly sleep. Hyper-hearing kicks in without him even having to think about it.

 _What're we gonna do?_ she asks, almost accusingly.

 _I don't know,_ he replies, sounding exasperated. _Look, we've had a really stressful day, let's just get some sleep._

 _We have to do_ something _, this is not a place to raise a family._

_Molly, I know that. We just--we have some time._

Peter hears a brush of skin-against-skin (hand-against-cheek, if he's not mistaken), Molly sighs, and then he stops listening.

Claire comes back in, carrying blankets for them. She hands him one, and he's spreading it out and starts to say something, but stops herself. Instead, she gets into bed and says, "Good night, Peter."

"Good night, Claire." And by the time he turns around, she's fast asleep. He only regrets using his persuasion on her a little bit, because she looks so peaceful.

He gets into his own bed, briefly enjoying the sensation of the mattress below him before he's overcome with sleep. He doesn't dream for the first time in weeks, and for that he's thankful.


	3. Part Two (Richmond)

April 27, 2016.  
_Boston._

Peter wakes up before dawn, and is ready to leave just as the sun filters in the high windows of the warehouse. He's walking towards the exit when he hears someone behind him. His hand instinctually goes to his waist, even though he's not carrying a weapon at all. He turns around, and there's Simon, fully dressed and expecting to go with him. He puts a hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"I can't let you come with me."

"I don't even know where you're going. I just need to do something."

Peter was going to have this talk with him later, but the moment is right, so he says, "I overheard you and Molly last night." Simon's eyes drop to the floor. "How far along is she?"

"Eleven weeks," he says, though it might as well be nine months judging by his tone of voice.

Peter nods. "Congratulations," he says, and it feels ironic. "You need to take care of them now," he continues. "You need to do whatever it takes to keep them safe. If you have to lie and cheat and steal, then you lie and cheat and steal, but you _keep them safe_."

"What about you and Claire?" Simon asks, looking up questioningly.

"You worry about Molly now. Understand?" Simon nods nervously. Peter smiles kindly at him. "You're gonna be a good dad," he adds softly, pats him on the shoulder.

Simon tries to smile, but it's hard. It's all right.

Peter takes a deep breath. "I'm going to see Nonna."

"You can tell her," Simon says without being prompted. "About me. And Molly."

"I will. I'll be back before lunch." He turns and starts walking away.

"Be careful," Simon says after a moment, and Peter turns back to say thank you. No one's told him that in a long time.

He goes invisible to try to get by security--not Dave and Henry this time, but a short blonde boy and Molly's friend Katherine--but the boy can sense his body heat. Katherine lets him go, and also tells him to be careful. He thanks her, also, and once he's outside, he runs.

 

_Hyde Park._

Teleportation is dangerous if done too early in the day, and he'd fly if he could, but his newly acquired hyper-speed is close enough. The first time he uses an ability, it's always a little shaky, but this one seems to work all right. He's more concerned about what's going to happen now that he's arrived than anything else.

The house is old, but not falling apart. It's been in their family for generations, or at least that's what he was told as a boy. He doesn't know if it's true and he doesn't care. Before he can knock on the door, it opens. A familiar face and a Caribbean accent greet him.

"Your mother's been expecting you," the Haitian says. He looks more or less the same as the last time Peter saw him, though there's no aggression in his eyes, which is a bit of a relief. He silently leads Peter into the sitting room, where the only chair is facing away from the door, and towards the picture window. He sees one of his mother's manicured hands draped over the arm closest to him. He approaches.

"Hello, Peter," she says softly as he steps around the chair. She looks older than he thinks she should, but that's mostly because she gave up dyeing her hair ages ago and it’s gone completely grey. She's dressed as if she was going out, but she hasn't left the house in at least six months. There's a glass of wine sitting on the table next to her, untouched and still cold. She seems kinder than she has been in the past, though Peter knows it's just that she hasn't seen him in years.

"Hi Mom." He smiles at her, and she smiles back, just a little.

"Come here," she murmurs, holding out her hand. He takes it in both of his, and with her other, she traces the scar across his face. "You look old," she says, but it's not a criticism.

"So do you," he teases, and she smiles.

"It's good to see you, Peter," she says.

He sits on the ottoman at his shins, still holding her hand, trying to still the sense of urgency in his chest. "I need something from you."

"What's that?"

"Information." He pauses, hesitates on purpose. "About Sylar."

Her face changes, subtly, to something between fear and smugness. It's an art form, really. She places her free hand on top of both of his surrounding her other one. "You know I can't give you that."

"I know you don't want to," he replies cooly. " _Can't_ is a different story." He knows the people who would harm her for handing the information over are long gone, but she still feels loyalty to them.

She opens her mouth to say something, but clenches her teeth instead.

He squeezes her hand. "That's not the only reason I'm here."

She smiles, but her eyes are sad. She's been having the same dreams, too. "You can't save me, Peter."

He shakes his head. "That's not what I meant." He means to add, _I'm here to say goodbye_ but it gets caught at the back of his throat. She understands anyway.

She pulls her hands back, then brushes past him to stand at the window a few feet away. "I can't give you what you want."

That's his cue to leave, but he doesn't take it. "Simon's alive," he says instead, and stands up. She turns, stares in disbelief. He continues: "He found me."

Disbelief turns to confusion. "How did he--"

"He's married to Molly Walker."

"Married?" she says, surprised. "Well, I didn't see that coming."

"And she's pregnant."

She faces the window, crossing her arms. She's never liked to cry in front of her children.

He walks up behind her, puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I know I can't save you, but I can save them."

She turns to him, takes his face in her hands, studying it. She shakes her head and sighs. "In Nathan's old room, in the closet, on the top shelf. There's a file box labeled 'timepieces.' Everything is in there."

He takes both her hands from his jaw, holds them for just a moment, then kisses one and heads for the stairs, which he climbs two at a time. He reaches the last door on the left, Nathan's room. He hasn't been in it since he was a teenager, and when he steps inside, he sees it hasn't changed much: just floral-patterned curtains in place of dark plaid ones. The full-sized bed is neatly made, the rug is vacuumed, the shelves are dusted. He opens the closet, and a few of Nathan's old suits (including a polyester one he remembers Nathan wearing to prom) are still hanging there. He touches all of them, running his hand lightly over the fabric, grabbing the sleeve of the last one, just feeling the material between his fingers. He takes a deep breath, trying to maybe smell something unique, something he remembers, but all he gets is mothballs and old cigars. He gets up on the stepstool in front of him, and finds the box just as his mother said it would be, and as he pulls it out, he hears something else shift next to it and sees a corner sticking out from the shelf. He sets the box down on the floor next to him, and steps up again. He holds the cigar box in his hands--that explains the smell--and runs his hand over the masking tape peeling away from the wood to flatten it out and cover the label as he's sure it was meant to. And there, in Nathan's sharp handwriting, is a seven-digit phone number he doesn't recognize.

He sits on the step stool, holds the box in his lap, and carefully slides the lid off and sets it on top of the papers in the file box. And there, nestled in between a sealed envelope and a pair of waterlogged concert tickets, is an old baseball card.

>   
>  _March, 1990._
> 
> Peter's headed out the door when Nathan, home for the weekend, calls him back inside, he has something to give him. Peter whines that his friends are waiting for him, but Nathan insists, so Peter comes back.
> 
> "You remember that friend I have, Barclay?" Nathan asks. Peter nods impatiently, and Nathan pulls an oversized envelope out from behind his back. It has Peter's name on it. He tears it open, and something falls out, but he's paying more attention to the _signed headshot of Mookie Wilson_ staring back at him. He thinks the words _holy crap_ come out of his mouth and Mom's going to have a fit if she heard him, but he doesn't care because--holy _crap_! Nathan's bending down to pick up whatever fell before, and holds it out to him. It's--
> 
> "A mint-condition rookie card? In plastic?"
> 
> Nathan just smiles at him.
> 
> He thinks for a second--it's not his birthday, it's not Christmas, it's not even Easter. He suddenly feels the need to give something in return, so he hands both the picture and the card back to Nathan and runs upstairs, coming back down clutching a small picture frame, which he shoves at his big brother as he takes his two-part present back. "I want you to have this."
> 
> Nathan looks down, shocked. "Pete, this is your favorite card."
> 
> "Not anymore," he says, studying his new favorite.
> 
> But Nathan still doesn't believe him. "This is your rookie Mickey Mantle card," he says emphatically. "You love this card. You spent three months' allowance on this card."
> 
> "I took it out of the plastic, it's not worth anything. Just take it, Nathan." Then, as an afterthought, "I need the frame anyway."
> 
> Nathan finally gives in, then looks past Peter's shoulder, out the open front door. "Don't you have friends waiting for you?"
> 
> Peter grins big and throws himself at Nathan, wrapping his arms around his waist. Nathan hugs him back, briefly, then nudges him away. Peter can't stop smiling as he shows his friends what the best big brother ever just gave him.

  
Now that he thinks about it, he'd always wondered what happened to that Mickey Mantle card, and he's glad it didn't just disappear into the void; he really did love it. He flips through the rest of the box's contents: in addition to the envelope, the concert tickets, and the card, there's a postcard, a couple of handwritten notes, and a half-dozen photographs including a few polaroids. He decides, quickly, to take the whole box with him, so he replaces the lid and hides it under a layer of papers in the file box, and heads back downstairs. Mom is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, hands folded in front of her like a lady. Being in Nathan's room has put him in a mood, so when he reaches her, he puts the file box down and pulls her into a hug, even though she clearly wasn't expecting it.

"I love you, Mom," he murmurs into her neck. He sounds like he's ten years old again, and he thinks it may be that more than anything else that makes her hug him back.

"I love you too, darling," she responds, and she means it. She always has. She pulls back from him, frames his face in her hands. She smiles despite the tears in her eyes. "Now go make me proud."

He nods, kisses her cheek, and turns away to pick up the box without another word. He's not sure he could speak if he wanted to. She watches him as he walks to the door, stops to tell the Haitian, in a voice barely above whisper, to protect her as long as he can, but to save himself and meet him in Boston. The Haitian understands, and agrees. Peter doesn't look back, only tucks the box under his arm and hears the door close behind him. He's not going to risk speeding back with important papers and a fragile collection of memories, so once he's far enough from the house and out of view from the road, he closes his eyes, concentrates, and teleports.

 

_Boston._

The warehouse is more well-hidden than he remembers, but he finds it anyway--acquiring practically eidetic memory several years ago makes things much easier. Katherine is still at the security table, so she only takes a moment to look him up and down before letting him in, but she stops him just as he's walking past her.

"So, you have my ability now?"

He slowly smiles at her, having picked up on her x-ray vision when he first met her. "Must be helpful for the whole medicine thing."

"You'll only use it for good, right?" she teases.

"Actually, I've had it for a while. And yes, I only use it for good," he adds, and that seems to lighten her disappointment. "Though I'm curious, how is it helpful here?"

"You mean for security?" He nods. "Heartbeats. Everyone's looks a little different. Yours is a bit more... lopsided than most."

He raises his eyebrows. "Lopsided?"

She just smiles a little. "You should get inside. Richmond came in a few minutes ago, I'm sure he wants to meet you."

"Right, I'll see you later," he says, then turns and goes into the corridor before she can answer. She's a lovely girl, but she likes him for all the wrong reasons. Most of them do.

Once he's inside the warehouse proper, he notices everyone seems to be speaking in whispers, and it's strangely, almost oppressively quiet. The stray thoughts that drift into his head are a welcome distraction. Simon sees him from across the room, and approaches.

"Richmond wants to meet you," he says, and starts leading Peter to a good-sized, tent-like partition just outside of the Cubes. Peter remembers seeing it last night, but now it's lit up. It looks a bit like it was transported straight from the battlefield, and maybe it was. Simon pulls back the flap, and there's a man standing inside, facing the opposite side of the tent, poring over papers on a table. He turns around when Simon says his name. He looks about thirty years old, six feet tall, with warm but dark eyes and short brown hair that's a little scraggly around his ears. He's dressed in t-shirt and jeans, though the fabric seems much sturdier than normal. Peter understands why Simon could be jealous of him: he's very handsome, but not harshly so. His face breaks into a smile when he sees the two of them.

"Richmond," he says, holding out his hand for Peter to shake. Peter does.

"Peter Petrelli." He reads Richmond for a moment. "Noise suppression," he finally says, grinning a little. "That's a new one."

Richmond looks at Simon, impressed. "Oh, he's _good_."

Simon just grins proudly, until Richmond asks him to leave, when he just stands there, slightly bewildered.

"It's okay," Peter says, and Simon reluctantly leaves.

Richmond pulls one of the folding chairs out from under the table in front of them, offers it to Peter, then sits in the other. Peter hoists the file box onto the table and sits down. Richmond gestures at it with his chin and crosses his arms.

"What's in the box?"

"Information I need to help you."

Richmond makes a sound of disapproval, but it's not meant for Peter. "Simon tells me he told you about our plan."

"I wouldn't've come if he hadn't. He did the right thing."

Richmond rubs his chin, almost self-consciously. "Right, well. You know what we need you to do?"

"I know what _I_ need to do," Peter says, almost correctively, "and in order to do it, I need as much information about him as I can get. Where he's been, who he's met."

"I'll get you everything we have. We're planning for September. That's when he's supposed to be on the move."

Peter nods. "I'll be ready."

"Good." He leans forward on the table, towards Peter. "Simon tells me you're his uncle." It's half an accusation, but Peter's withstood much worse.

"I am."

Richmond sits back, smoothes out one thigh of his jeans. "Then I'm sorry about your brother."

Before either of them can say anything else, Peter stands up, one hand on the file box. "I should get this back to my cube."

"You're staying in the Cubes?" His tone of voice borders on disdain. Peter doesn't like it.

"Yeah, it's fine."

"I have three beds in here," he says, gesturing to the curtained-in space behind him. "You're welcome any time." Peter can't tell if he's being condescending or helpful, or both.

"Thank you," he says anyway.

"So you'll be at the meeting tonight, then?"

"I will," Peter says.

"Great, I'll introduce you to everyone."

And even though Peter doesn't want that at all, he knows it will give people hope, so he says nothing. They shake hands again, and then he leaves.

Claire's riffling through her bag when Peter comes into the cube. She turns away from it, and her eyes immediately go to the box.

"What's with that?" she asks, but then she remembers: "Right, you can't tell me." And she turns back to her bag.

He sets the box on his bed. "I met Richmond."

"Huh," Claire responds.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

They both turn into the middle of the room, even though they're barely three feet apart. Her hand goes to her hip. "I knew him back when we started this whole thing. He-- We were together for a while."

"You didn't tell me that," Peter says, feeling slightly betrayed.

"I didn't know it was him. Richmond's his middle name. I knew him as Paul. I--" She shifts her weight. "Be careful."

He smiles a little at her, then turns back to his bed, lifting the top layer of papers and taking out the cigar box. He knows he can't hide it from Claire--she's too clever for that--so he doesn't even try. He gets up on the bed and holds it on his lap, and when she turns around to announce lunch is in twenty minutes and she's going to take a shower, she sees it, but doesn't mention it. He just nods and lets her go.

A nearly-hidden glossy four-by-six catches his eye and he pulls it out, carefully. He remembers this picture being taken, right outside Nathan's newly founded campaign offices, hours after he'd announced he was running for Congress.

>   
>  _May, 2006._
> 
> He's out on the balcony of Mr. Linderman's penthouse, watching the lights come on in the Empire State Building, wearing a suit and smoking a cigarette he bummed off of one of Mom's friends whose name he can't remember. It's menthol, and he hates it, but he's so anxious that the nicotine is more important than the taste. This is the first of many events in Nathan's hurried campaign, Peter knows that, but he's made up his mind that he's not coming to any more unless he absolutely has to. As it is, he's two steps away from a panic attack. He flicks some ashes over the railing as he hears someone open the door behind him, then close it carefully.
> 
> "You smoke?" Nathan asks, stepping into Peter's field of view. He's still in his tux, though the collar looks a bit stretched out, and he's holding a glass of scotch-flavored ice in his hand. "Aren't you a nurse now?"
> 
> "I only smoke when I'm nervous," Peter says, and blows smoke out over Manhattan.
> 
> Nathan shakes his head, leans up against the railing. "You learn something new every day." He looks over at Peter. "I'm the one that should be nervous. I don't know what I was thinking, starting this late in the game--"
> 
> "You're gonna win," Peter cuts in, and somehow, he knows it's true.
> 
> "Peter," he says, and Peter already knows by his let-me-tell-you- _this_ -little-brother tone of voice that he'll have to do a better job of encouraging him, "the other candidates--they're more experienced, they've been campaigning since January, they--"
> 
> "You're Nathan Petrelli," Peter says simply. "You always win. You could do anything. You could--" he takes a drag "--walk through walls if you wanted to."
> 
> Nathan puts his arm around Peter's shoulders, and Peter feels his chest loosen up a little. Thank God. "If only the whole city was made up of little brothers," Nathan says affectionately. Then, "I should get back inside." And he disentangles himself from Peter and the railing, and moves towards the door.
> 
> Peter stubs out his cigarette on the railing, flicks it over the edge. "You're gonna win," he repeats.
> 
> Nathan turns back and smiles at him, half genuine and half patronizing, but Peter believes in his brother enough for the both of them.

  
He hears people walking outside, all in the same direction, and realizes it's been twenty minutes and it's time for lunch, so he carefully replaces the picture in the box and the box under the papers, and makes his way to the Floor, trying to remain as invisible as possible without actually making himself disappear.

(This is the first proper meal he and Claire have had in weeks, and where everyone else grimaces and whines and complains that they always have the same four things to eat, the two of them find it remarkably delicious.)

*

The meeting is at a coffee shop ten blocks away. The two-dozen citizens of the warehouse virtually all take different routes, all on foot.

"Don't want to raise too much suspicion," Molly explains as she, Simon, Peter and Claire follow the directions that show up on her calculator. Peter doesn't ask how meeting in a public place won't raise suspicion in and of itself, and he's glad because when he sees the boarded up and blackened-out windows, he realizes he would have sounded like a rookie. Molly gives the password to the young man at the door, and then they're inside.

There are sixty people in the small shop, about forty of them with abilities as far as Peter can tell. They're packed wall to wall, some sitting on the floor, some leaning against torn-apart walls, and two lucky first-arrivals are sitting at a table just inside the door. Everyone is under thirty, except for Peter and Richmond, who's standing in the bay window area, hands on his hips. He smiles as soon as he sees the four of them--apparently the last ones to arrive--walk in. He gets everyone's attention, asks Tricia to turn on the lights (she snaps her fingers and does), thanks them all for coming, and explains why they're there--to pool their information, to plan--

"And thanks to Simon, to meet someone important." He gestures at Peter, who takes that as his cue to step up to the front of the room. He feels odd standing in front of so many people, and he's still adjusting to all the new abilities he's just acquired, so he also feels a little wobbly. He's not sure what to say, so he just starts speaking.

"I'm guessing most of you know who I am," he starts, but someone asks him to prove it--which he does by spelling out the kid's name with sparks that come out of his fingers. The crowd is quiet after that, so he continues. "Look, I'm not here to be your leader. I'm not here to tell you what to do. I'm not--" He gathers himself. "I'm here to kill Sylar." People cringe slightly at the mention of that name, but Peter goes on. "And to do that, I need as much information as possible. Richmond's already offered me everything you have, but anything else you can give me--anything at all--will help." He pauses, scans the crowd. "I know a lot of you are skeptical. You think it's a suicide mission. But I also know he's done a lot of terrible things--that he's hurt a lot of people. A lot of you here have lost someone. So do this for them."

"And you'll be staying at the warehouse?" Richmond asks, as if he didn't know. He's smiling a little too much for someone about to start a war, and it makes Peter uneasy.

"Yeah, I'll be there for a while," he says, and moves away from the spotlight area. People start applauding, and he's not sure what to do, so he just waves at them as he leans into Claire and tells her he need to get out of here. She understands, and as soon as the applause dies down, he slips out.

He makes it back to the warehouse, gets past the girl at the desk (who's essentially a human lie detector), and finds it more or less empty. Dinner's been over for an hour, and most everyone is at the meeting. He goes back to his cube, and immediately pulls out the cigar box. He sets up a small defense around his cube to keep everyone else out, and removes the lid. He flips through the items in the box, and a postcard that proclaims in once-brightly colored letters that the sender says hello from sunny California. On the blank side, his own scrawling, cursive handwriting reads:

_N-_  
We went to Death Valley today. It was so hot! Miss you, wish you were here.  
Love,  
P 

He's half-surprised his eight-year-old self didn't sign his full name at the bottom, but then again, space and time were limited.

>   
>  _June, 1988._
> 
> Nathan's supposed to go with them to California, but he's been called back to school unexpectedly. Peter refuses to accept this and quite literally wraps himself around Nathan's leg. Nathan gently peels him off and says, "We'll go together someday, all right?"
> 
> Peter pouts at him. "You promised."
> 
> "I know, and I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."
> 
> Peter doesn't like it, but he knows he can't win.
> 
> (By the time they land in L.A., he's gotten over it, mostly, and by the time they're back in New York, he's almost forgotten completely.)

  
He laughs at his younger self for being so clingy, but at the same time, he misses having someone to cling to. He eyes the box of papers on Sylar, but decides against going through it now--he's got until November, and he'd rather end the night on a good note.

 

April 30, 2016.  
_Boston._

Richmond leaves on a scouting trip, and makes sure Peter knows. He's growing on Peter, for sure, but he's still irritatingly charismatic. Claire walks up to him after Richmond leaves.

"I know what you're thinking," she says.

He raises his eyebrows at her, then starts walking. "I wasn't aware you could actually read minds."

"Just don't do anything stupid," she says, following him. "If this turns into Dallas--"

He stops, spins back to her on his heel. "Dallas was a mistake." Dallas was a learning experience, if finding out having feelings for someone else when you're on a mission is a bad idea could be considered a learning experience. That's how he thinks of it, anyway.

"If this turns in to Dallas, I'm leaving," she finishes.

He looks at her disapprovingly, she huffs at him, and they part ways. It's par for the course, he knows this, but it still makes life unnecessarily difficult. He doesn't think on it any further, and they're cordial to each other for the rest of the week.

 

May 12, 2016.  
_Boston._

Peter's been studying the files his mother gave him, which essentially track Sylar's movements from the time he was about eight. He's been holding off on the cigar box, but just as he's about to get to the puberty of Gabriel Gray, he decides to give it a rest. Reading nonstop for two weeks does things to a person, even if that person can speed-read to an extreme degree. He pulls the smaller box down from the shelf above his bed, opens it carefully. There's a picture that feels different from the rest--the edges are softer, the colors are lighter, the thumbprints on the corners are more noticeable. Peter pulls it out--it's of a baby girl, maybe a year old, with a big pink bow on the front of her dress. The last time he saw it seems like a lifetime ago.

>   
>  _October, 1998._
> 
> Heidi nearly pounces on Peter the moment he walks into the backyard for the engagement party. She says Nathan's acting up and not listening to anyone and could Peter help, please? He, of course, agrees.
> 
> Which he regrets almost immediately. He's never seen Nathan this drunk, and he's seen him pretty drunk. He grabs the scotch bottle before Nathan can take another sip, and leads him into the side garden and sits him down on the stone bench, then sits next to him, hand still on his arm as if he was going to get up and walk away.
> 
> "Peter, I wanna show you something," he slurs, and pulls out a picture from his wallet. He hands it to Peter and, lowering his voice a little, says, "This--this is my daughter."
> 
> Peter's shocked, since he's never heard about this before. "Your daughter?"
> 
> "Yep." He clicks his tongue, and he smiles sloppily. "My _daughter_."
> 
> "Where is she?"
> 
> Nathan's face changes completely, then he starts to laugh, to mask the intensity of his next statement: "In a cemetery in Texas."
> 
> Peter's nearly speechless, but he manages, "Oh god, I'm so sorry."
> 
> "Isn't she beautiful," Nathan breathes, running his finger along the edge of the photograph.
> 
> Peter's still trying to get past the _cemetery in Texas_ part, so he asks, "Nathan, what happened?"
> 
> He looks up at Peter, seemingly offended that Peter had asked anything at all. "Fire. Her mother, too." He stares at the picture for another moment, then breaks down completely. "I never even met her," he practically sobs into Peter's shoulder.
> 
> Peter puts an arm around him, tries to comfort him, but he sits up after only a minute or two, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He shoves the picture at Peter.
> 
> "I can't keep this," he says thickly, "I want you to have it."
> 
> "Nathan--"
> 
> "You can keep it safe. If Heidi finds this--"
> 
> "I can't take it," Peter interjects, but Nathan's face is so pathetic that he decides to compromise. "I'll take it tonight, and then you can decide what to do with it when you're sober. Okay?"
> 
> Nathan nods solemnly. "Okay." He taps one finger on Peter's cheekbone, haphazardly, then cups Peter's chin in his hand and kisses him, square on the mouth. Peter gently pushes him away, but his lips still taste like scotch and grief.
> 
> "C'mon," he says, tucking the picture in Nathan's back pocket, "let's get you to bed."
> 
> "You're a good brother," Nathan murmurs--a sentiment he repeats the next morning, much to Peter's relief.
> 
> (Neither of them bring up the picture again, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter knows the girl he meets in Texas is his dead niece, even though that sounds impossible.)

  
He looks up from the photo, and there's Claire, mostly grown up, standing in front of him. He's pretty sure he looks surprised because she comes right over to him and peeks at what he has in his hands.

"Who's that?" she asks bluntly. They're on speaking terms, for now, but that could change at any moment.

"That's you."

She doesn't believe him. "Meredith told me all my baby pictures got destroyed in the fire."

"Apparently not." He hands it to her. "Take it. It's a part of you."

"Is it from the box of Nathan's stuff? I opened it the other day," she adds when he sighs, defeated.

"Yeah, it is."

He knows Claire wants to say something, to tear him apart. She's never been fond of Nathan, and she's never understood why Peter has held onto him for so long. He's never been able to explain it, and she respects it most of the time. Tonight, he sees her patience wearing thin. It's disconcerting.

Instead, she just tips her head back a little and sighs. "Thanks for the picture," she says without turning around, and he doesn't show it, but he's glad she didn't say anything.

 

May 25, 2016.  
_Boston._

Peter finds himself working side-by-side with Richmond quite often--Richmond planning the tactical parts of their mission and Peter still poring over files, with not much overlap--and sometimes going on scouting trips together, looking for different things they don't share with the other. Richmond tries to talk to him, tries to eke information out of him, but he always changes the subject or flat-out doesn't answer. And the guy's persistent, Peter will give him that, and he knows that he's mostly shut himself down. It's mostly out of necessity: Peter's learned what trusting someone you don't know brings you. He knows if he was still in the real world, Mom would have forced him into some form of therapy by now, even if it was just a friend of hers giving him a slap on the wrist for being this way.

He's working late one night when Richmond comes in carrying two cups of coffee, sets one on top of Peter's papers, and he knows the questions are about to begin.

"Is it true?"

Peter looks up at him. "Is what true?"

"Your scar," he says, demonstrating with a slashing motion across his face. "How you got it. The comics say it was Hiro Nakamura. Is it true?"

"Yes," Peter says, moving the cup off of his pile.

Richmond sits down next to him, shaking his head. "I thought he was a good guy. I mean, the comics always show him as a good guy, right up until--"

"We didn't know as much about mental blocking techniques then," he explains. It feels like a century ago, but he knows it was only a few years. "Sylar could control anyone who wasn't paying attention and Hiro..." He shakes his head. "I heard he was dead three weeks later, and I was glad."

"Why?" Richmond asks, half confused and half disgusted.

"Because I knew he would rather be dead than do evil." Then, after Richmond doesn't get up and leave, he asks, "Why do you keep asking me these things?"

"Well, I mean--" Richmond shrugs, a little defensively. "If we're going to work together--"

"We're not working together, okay?" Peter says bluntly. "You give me information, and I'll fight Sylar. I'm not part of your organization." He looks over and Richmond's jaw is set like he's about to take a punch. Maybe he is.

"You're not alone. We've all lost someone. My sister--"

"You can't even begin to imagine my loss," Peter cuts in, and that opens the gates a little. "I've lost my family, my friends, my allies, almost everyone who was important to me. I put them in the way of danger because of _who I was_. Hiro, Matt Parkman, DL Hawkins--I put Noah Bennett and Mohinder Suresh right in the thick of it all, and I got them killed. So I have to be alone. What I can do--I'm not safe to be around. I may not even stay here much longer." He turns back to his papers, and expects Richmond to leave. He doesn't.

"My sister was seventeen," he says as a last-ditch effort. "Her name was Rebecca. She could--"

"I'm sure this is a very touching story, and I'm sorry for whatever happened to her, but if you're expecting some kind of mutual exchange of information so we can commiserate about our dead siblings, you're mistaken." Peter can almost taste the acid on his own tongue.

"Right," Richmond says, standing up and taking both untouched cups of coffee with him. "I guess that clears that up."

He's halfway across the tent when Peter realizes how much of a jerk he's being, and feels the need to say something.

"He was a conceited, lying hypocrite," he says. He hears soft, slow footsteps turning back towards him. "He hated himself. But I loved him."

There's a moment of silence, where neither of them even breathe, and then Richmond says good night with a hint of a smile, and goes to his bed.

Peter thinks it's a start, and Richmond does too.

 

May 30, 2016.  
_Boston._

Peter discovers that as the veneer is stripped away, little by little, he and Richmond actually get along quite well. They plan a month-long recruiting trip--gathering members from other cities to help with the mission--and both Claire and Molly volunteer to go. Simon protested that Molly should stay here, it's safer, but she'd responded that nowhere is safe anymore, and insisted that Claire could take care of her. Peter knows this is true, so he lets them think that's his reason for not saying anything about her going, but she knows how palpable the tension has become lately. They'll be glad to get out of each other's personal space for a while.

Except that the night before they leave, she corners him in their cube.

"We need to talk," she says.

"Claire--"

"I just need to say this, and then I'll be done with it."

Peter's been waiting for this talk since they met Simon a month ago. He crosses his arms and shifts his weight.

"I know why you like Richmond so much." She stares at him, eyes harsh, mouth drawn. "He's not Nathan."

"I'm not stupid, Claire." Peter feels defensive. He's working to keep his reflexive abilities at bay. He doesn't want to hurt her.

"I mean, he's practically just a suit and a tie away, but he's _not Nathan_. And I wouldn't think so much of it except that you have that _box_ and-- I just wish you _get over him_ already."

He promised himself he wouldn't say anything, but this is just too much. He swallows. "Do I tell you to 'just get over' Noah?"

"No," she says defiantly, hands on her hips now, "because I _deal_ with my grief. I _talk_ about it. You--you can't even _fly_ anymore, that's how fucked up you are over this." She pauses, gathers herself. "Look, Nathan is dead, all right? And you can't bring him back. I see the way you look at me, the way you look at Simon. _We're not him._ And Richmond's certainly not him. And your--your box of brotherly devotion? That's just--"

"Look, Claire," he cuts in calmly, "I'm only going to say this once. You knew Nathan for a few days, and he was pretty horrible to you--to me--to everyone." His breath hitches a little, but he ignores it. "But you didn't _know_ him. He was my brother." She rolls her eyes, but he continues. "And he did--he did it because of you. He respected you." Claire seems unaffected, so Peter goes off a little. "He was your father, for God's sake."

"He's not my father," Claire snarls. "Not once was he my father."

"He's a part of you," Peter says defiantly, "whether you want to accept that or not. You don't have to love him. Just--" He stops short because he's not sure what he wants.

Claire doesn't quite know how to respond, so she leaves the cube without another word.

Peter sits down on his bed, overwhelmed, and for the first time in years, feels like he's about to cry. He quickly grabs the box off the shelf, opens it, and the concert tickets on top catch his eye. They've been rained on, and the ink has run, but he can faintly make out the date.

>   
>  _March, 1995._
> 
> Nathan doesn't want to be here. Peter knows that, but he's grateful all the same. He thought fifteen was more than old enough to go to a concert by himself, but apparently Madison Square Garden was a different story. Nathan listens to jazz and Eric Clapton, not the current stuff Peter plays on his Walkman on the way to school--certainly not R.E.M.--but he agreed to chaperone. Their seats are not bad at all, but Nathan just stands there next to Peter, almost stoic, until the middle of the set when the band starts playing this one song (he says later it reminded him of the Talking Heads), and his head bobs a little to the beat. Peter, between awkward teenage-boy dance moves, sees it out of the corner of his eye and bumps his hip into Nathan's, grinning widely at him. Nathan smiles back, and lets himself sway to the rest of the songs, even singing along to that one that's on the radio.

  
He never told Nathan, but that concert was one of the best nights of his life. By the time he's placed the box back on the shelf, Claire is standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," she says, looking at him hopefully.

He nods, knowing she's being sincere. "It's okay." He gestures for her to come to him, and she does, curling into his side, arms around his waist, and he draws her into his body with an arm around her shoulders. They don't cry, they don't even speak. He can't remember the last time he held someone, and she can't remember the last time she was held, so they just sit there, in each other's arms.

"It's okay," he says, finally, into the top of her head, and for the first time in a long time, it is.

 

June 30, 2016.  
_Boston._

Peter tells Richmond to be careful for the first time one night when he doesn't go on a scouting trip, instead staying behind and instructing some new local recruits on controlling their abilities. They're friends, yes, but this is the first time Peter's really cared enough to say something. It's a big step, and Richmond smiles at him, says Simon (who is going in place of his uncle) is in good hands.

He's on his way to the meeting later that night, unseen, when he literally bumps into Simon, who seems to come out of nowhere. He's got blood on his hands, and he looks absolutely terrified. Peter shows himself, and grabs him by the forearms.

"What happened?" he asks, trying to pull it out of him, but Simon's so scared that he's got all his blocks up.

"Katherine and Richmond are dead," he says in a breathy monotone. "It was Sylar, he knew where we were." Peter immediately starts panicking, but that's not what needs to happen right now, so he pushes it down. "What do I do?" Simon asks.

Peter's never been good at improvising, but he'll just have to start now. "Go back to the warehouse. Clean yourself up. I'll handle the meeting." Simon continues to stare at him for a moment, until he almost yells _go_ at him.

Tonight's meeting is at an old car dealership; some of the streamers and pomp and circumstance are hanging sadly from the lampposts outside. He walks in, stands at the front of the room, and everything falls silent when they see his bloody hands.

"I, um." He suddenly feels scared, but he doesn't let it show. "Nobody needs to panic." He inhales, exhales, calms himself, then braces himself mentally, grabs a hold of everyone else. "But Richmond and Katherine are dead. It was Sylar." There's a little wave that goes through the crowd, but it's mostly stunned silence. He's not sure what to say next, so he says whatever comes into his head, and he's impressed that he's so practical. "This operation needs a leader," he continues. "Someone to hold it together. Someone that's not me. That should be a top priority right now."

There's dead silence, and then Claire says, "I'll do it."

She gets up in front of the crowd, looking out over them. Peter stands off to the side, wondering what's going to happen next. His predictions haven't been numerous lately.

"I know some of you have been skeptical. But now-- Now you see what Sylar does. Who he is, _what_ he is. He will kill you for your ability. He doesn't need to, but he will." There's a rustling whisper that goes through the crowd, then only stunned silence again. "We have a plan," she continues, "we might just have to change it a little bit."

A few people start nodding their heads, and when she says _who was in charge of recruits_ , Peter slips out the door. He doesn't need to hear this.

He makes it back to the cube after avoiding a dozen people who saw Simon come in asking him questions ( _talk to Claire when she gets back_ , he tells them). He hasn't looked in the box for two weeks, nearly, and the events of today warrant a glance.

The first thing he picks up is a photo of him and Nathan in front of the Eiffel Tower. The date on the back says 2000, right before Monty was born. He closes his eyes.

_Late at night, taste of salt and smell of wine, earthen and cultured all at once, lips already swollen from kissing pretty girls down by the river..._

No, that one's too painful for tonight, maybe too painful for any night. He shuffles the papers around and shakes his head out. He finds one of him leaning against a white 1967 Mustang. Much better.

>   
>  _September, 1999._
> 
> "I can't keep it anymore," Nathan says, holding out the keys helplessly. "Heidi won't let me."
> 
> "I don't even know how to drive," Peter says, still resistant.
> 
> "Then I'll teach you. Come on."
> 
> Peter gives in, takes the keys. Nathan grins.

  
He sold the car during his second year of nursing school to pay for housing, and Nathan later told him that was exactly why he gave it to him in the first place.

Claire, frazzled, drained, but determined, pokes her head in the curtain, sees him with the box, and leaves without saying anything. She understands.


	4. Part Three (Nathan)

July, 2016.  
 _somewhere in the United States_

He and Simon travel to other cities, gathering support, one person at a time. Claire doesn't like to call it "building an army," but that's really what they're doing. They almost have enough people--both "special" and not--to really put the plan into action. They go by train--it's much slower, but it's the safest way. They don't talk much--they don't have a lot in common besides Nathan, and Simon doesn't really remember him anyway. They're in an empty car on their way to Chicago to pick up some new recruits when Simon says, suddenly, "Do you think I'm a coward?"

"Why would you ask that?" Peter half-knows the answer, but he's known this conversation was coming for a long time. He's ready for it.

Simon licks his lips nervously. "When Sylar came to our house, he came for me. He--knew about me. I hadn't even told anyone, and he knew. He got us in a taxi cab." He looks up at Peter. "Did you know that? That's where he cornered us." Peter shakes his head, but only because he wants Simon to feel in control of the story. "We got out, somehow, and we hid in an alley. Mom told us to run, so we ran. Monty said to go in opposite directions so he couldn't get both of us. I said no, we should stick together, but he pushed me away and then--then I couldn't see him anymore. He was invisible." Peter didn't know that, but he pretends not to be surprised. Simon swallows, blinks rapidly, takes a breath, and there's a quaver in his voice. "And then I heard--I heard him dying. I heard my own brother dying and I didn't go back. I just ran. I left my brother to die and I ran." The story sounds vaguely familiar, but Peter dismisses it. "Does that make me a coward?"

Peter shakes his head after a moment, and looks him directly in the eye. "That makes you alive."

"I could've saved him," Simon says. "I could've saved Richmond and Katherine."

"No, you would've just gotten yourself killed."

"Maybe it'd be better that way," he mumbles, looking away; then, with purpose, "You can time travel."

"No, Simon, that's not--"

"You can take me back, and I--"

"No, I can't."

"Why not?" Simon's bordering on angry now, and it's a little bit scary.

"Because that's not how it works. There are some things you just can't change." He tries to be stern, but it comes off as annoyance mixed with anger. Then, softer, "You're not a coward. You're human."

Simon lowers his head, and they pull up to the station, and they're both glad for it.

*

Simon sleeps on the night train back to Boston, along with the rest of the people they've collected, while Peter stays awake and riffles through the cigar box. He'd probably dream about it anyway. He picks up the sealed envelope, runs his fingers over the seal, but doesn't open it. He chooses the set of polaroids instead. They're all of his chin.

>   
> _February, 2002._
> 
> He wakes up at 6:30 in the morning after he'd been up until 2, studying for a test, to a knock on the door. He was planning on sleeping in, making breakfast for and with Brett, who's still sleeping and blissfully unaware of the predicament his boyfriend is in at the moment. He expects Mom or maybe his landlord, so he answers the door in his boxers, but instead, Nathan is standing there in front of him, suit and tie and hair slicked back, holding an envelope and awkwardly leaning to one side. He suddenly feels very exposed and really, really wants to run back into his bedroom and grab a shirt or a robe or a blanket to wrap himself in.
> 
> "Nathan," he finally breathes, and it's then that Brett comes padding into the room. At least he had the decency to put on a shirt.
> 
> "What's goin' on, Pete?" he says before he sees Nathan; then, sensing the tension in the air, "Oh, I'm sorry, am I--"
> 
> "No," Peter says to him, "no, you're--it's fine. Nathan, this is Brett. Brett, this is my brother Nathan."
> 
> "Oh," Brett says, "your brother, right. Sorry, I thought maybe--" He turns to Nathan, who shakes his hand and smiles. "I thought you might be his ex we were talking about last night. Obviously not, my mistake."
> 
> "Obviously," Nathan says, still smiling. "Well, I'll get out of your way, but I came into the city a little early and I just wanted to drop something off for Peter--"
> 
> "No, it's okay," Brett says, gathering up his messenger bag and stray socks. "I should get going anyway."
> 
> Peter leans back into him. "But we were gonna--waffles and--"
> 
> "It's okay, I have that big test on Monday and you guys probably have family stuff to talk about. We'll have waffles some other time, okay?" he says, trying to be calming like he always does, and Peter can't tell if it's a promise or a kiss-off. Either way, he doesn't like it. He leans in to kiss Peter, but hesitates for a moment before Peter gives him the go-ahead nod. "I'll call you. Nice meeting you," he says to Nathan on his way out, and blows Peter a kiss as he closes the door behind him.
> 
> Nathan shifts his weight to the other foot, starts fiddling with his envelope, but before he can say anything, Peter asks, "Can I please put a shirt on?"
> 
> "Of course. It's your apartment, do whatever you want." Nathan's not looking at him, voice distant, withdrawn, small. It's weird, but Peter doesn't stick around to psychoanalyze him. He wants his goddamn shirt. He picks one up off the floor because he doesn't really care if it's dirty or not.
> 
> "What are you _doing_ here?" he asks, rounding the corner.
> 
> "I came to give you these," Nathan says, holding out the envelope.
> 
> He opens it, and three polaroids fall out.
> 
> "Simon took them at the party, I thought you might--"
> 
> "This is your excuse to come see me?" Peter is almost angry.
> 
> Nathan shifts his weight. "Pete, I haven't seen you in two weeks, I miss you."
> 
> "You lost the right to say that when you ended this." He points between the two of them, then decides to get obnoxious. "Tell me, do you do that to all the other girls?"
> 
> "You are not--I don't--" Nathan stumbles over his words, and Peter takes some kind of perverse pleasure in it until he says, "You're my _brother_."
> 
> "That's the only reason you gave me to _not_ do what we did," Peter says defiantly, "so that doesn't fly."
> 
> "Peter--"
> 
> "Tell me how I'm different." Now he genuinely wants to know.
> 
> Nathan starts to say something, then turns for the door. Peter throws the polaroids on the table, rushes over and slams his hand on the door to keep it closed, even though he knows Nathan could easily overpower him.
> 
> "Tell me."
> 
> "Peter, this is ridiculous."
> 
> "Oh, right, because god-forbid Nathan Petrelli talks about his _feelings_."
> 
> "Because--" he starts, then gathers himself and speaks a little softer. "Because when I'm with other women, I'm cheating on my wife, and when I'm--when I was with Heidi, I was cheating on _you_. I just wanted to be with my own wife without feeling like an asshole. That's why I did it." He breathes, seemingly for the first time in a long time. "Happy?" Peter takes his hand off the door, and Nathan says, with a sense of power, "Thank you."
> 
> As he's leaving, Peter grabs the pictures off the table and thrusts it at him. "Keep these," he says. "You didn't want to give them to me in the first place, they were just an excuse."
> 
> Nathan takes them and leaves without a word. Peter shuts the door and slides down to the floor against it. He was going to try and go back to sleep, but his heart is racing and he feels sick. So much for sleeping in.

  
Simon's watching him from his sleeper-car bed, so he gets up and shows his nephew the pictures.

"You must've been about four," he says. "You loved that camera."

Simon smiles at him. "Tell me about my dad."

He sits back, closes up the box. "Your dad--" He looks up at Simon's hopeful face. He knows how it is to see people through rose-colored glasses, and he doesn't want to disappoint him, not at a precarious time like this. "Your dad loved you."

"Was he special?" Simon's voice is barely above a whisper, and steeped in anticipation.

Peter decides to tell him, sees no reason not to. "He could fly."

Simon's face breaks out into a smile, then drops again. "How come he never--"

"He didn't want anyone to know. He was--it was complicated." Peter would rather not tarnish his nephew's view of his father any more than that. Instead, he says, "He would have been very proud of you."

Simon nods and asks if Peter wants to get some sleep. He says no, of course, and Simon doesn't protest, just lies back down.

Peter smiles, and returns to his seat. He spends the rest of the night watching the trees go by and trying to dispel the tight feeling in his chest.

*

When they get to Seattle, Simon disappears for three hours, and barely makes the train back home. Peter tries to read his thoughts, and can't, but gets a bad feeling about it anyway. When he dreams about Sylar slicing most of the population of the warehouse in half, he knows he's right.

 

August, 2016.  
 _Boston._

Peter moves out of the warehouse when he gets back after the trip. He finds an old apartment building near Quincy Market, and sleeps in a different room every night. He goes into Quincy Market every day, watches the people milling about, trying to spot the one man he's looking for. He doesn't find him, until the second Saturday of the month. He's not sad when he finally sees the Haitian--rather, he's relieved he doesn't have to worry anymore.

He walks up to him and instead of hello, he says, "I need you to trail Simon."

The Haitian just nods slowly. He learned long ago not to ask questions, and for that Peter is glad.

*

He only goes back to the warehouse when he needs to. He slips in and out practically unnoticed when he picks up new information from Claire twice a week. Simon is mostly absent these days, and no one quite seems to know where he is, but whenever he returns, he has armfuls of new recruits, so no one really questions him. Peter doesn't know any more than they do, but he hopes to soon.

Sometimes, he'll check in on Molly. She's not due for another two months, but she's stopped going on trips, and has started working in the kitchen. It's not much safer, but Simon doesn't care--he'd rather know where she is, he says. She tells Peter she won't say it to his face, but she agrees. She looks happy, and healthy, and she lets him feel the baby kick. He idly remembers when he felt Simon do the same, and it's a comforting contrast to the rest of his life.

At the second meeting of the month--this one in the lobby of an abandoned hotel--a petite girl comes rushing in with bad news: Sylar's moving date has been changed to a day earlier, and she gives lots of details about times and locations. (Peter pulls her aside afterwards and asks how she knows this, but her eyes are glazed over, and she says her life has been threatened. He knows this can't be good, but he doesn't want to alert the others.)

"It's all right," Claire says to calm down the seething crowd. "We have a plan. We'll just move it up." Everyone's listening to her now. Peter's impressed with her command skills. "Now get out there, go. Tell everyone who needs to know."

No one really knows how intricate the plans are, how time-sensitive and how precise they need to be. If one person is out of place for one minute, the whole thing could fall apart. Sylar's tricky like that.

They get everything mostly reworked, and he doesn't sleep for days. He's glad for the dreamlessness if nothing else.

 

September, 2016.  
 _Boston._

Peter intentionally doesn't involve himself in the final planning stages; Claire seems to have that under control. He needs to gather his strength anyway.

A week before they're due in Baltimore, after months of wondering about it, he finally opens the sealed envelope. There's three letters inside. They're all dated 1994. One is addressed to Mom and Dad (the handwriting is small, and fills up most of the page), one to Heidi (slightly more legible), and one, in that sharp, elegant lettering, clear enough to read from a distance, written out to--

> _Peter,_
> 
> _If you're reading this, it means I won't be coming home, and I won't see you again. I just want you to know that I might not ever say it out loud, but sometimes you're the only thing that keeps me going when I'm not feeling so brave. I know you'll grow up to be someone great, so don't let my not being there hold you back. I believe in you, kid. I love you._
> 
> _n_

  
Peter suddenly remembers the significance of the date at the top, and the phone call he received that one night. 

>   
> _May, 1994._
> 
> He escapes Nathan's homecoming party. It's too stuffy in the house, so he pulls off his clip-on tie and sits out on the front stoop. He's not out there five minutes when he turns around and sees Nathan coming out to join him. He's in his dress whites, shoes clicking on the brick as he steps outside.
> 
> "You all right?" He sounds like Mom made him come out here.
> 
> "What do you care?" Peter's feeling indignant tonight
> 
> Nathan shifts his weight. "You still mad at me for this morning?"
> 
> "No."
> 
> "Look, I was out of line, I'm sorry--"
> 
> "I said no."
> 
> Nathan's hand is on his shoulder, and he wants to shake it off but he doesn't. "What's wrong?"
> 
> Peter looks up at him. "You lied to me."
> 
> Nathan shakes his head. "I don't understand."
> 
> "I talked to Jimmy. He said you sat behind a desk most of the time you guys were over there."
> 
> Nathan shakes his head again. "Jimmy is full of crap."
> 
> "Your other friend said it, too."
> 
> There's a pause, and they look away from each other. Nathan sits down on the stair next to him. He must really think Peter is that naïve.
> 
> "I told all my friends you were a fighter pilot. I said you weren't afraid of anything. That's what you told me. You made me a liar, Nathan."
> 
> Nathan gets defensive at that. "I _am_ a fighter pilot, Pete--"
> 
> "Don't. I'm fourteen, not stupid."
> 
> Nathan sighs. "It's complicated, okay."
> 
> "Was it because of Dad?" Peter already knows the answer, but he has to ask anyway.
> 
> "What?" He can't tell if Nathan is shocked or trying to hide something, but it doesn't matter.
> 
> "Did they put you behind a desk because of Dad?"
> 
> Nathan just stares at him.
> 
> "Tell me the truth."
> 
> "Yeah, yeah, it was because of Dad," Nathan admits, sounding defeated.
> 
> "Why'd you lie to me?"
> 
> Nathan sighs again. "I don't know, I guess it sounds cooler to say 'I'm a pilot' than 'I stay at base and tell everybody else what to do.' I'm sorry."
> 
> Peter tilts his head, almost not believing how stupid Nathan is being. "You're my big brother. You're already cool."
> 
> Nathan pretends not to hear him, stands up, and brushes something off his knee. He starts walking back inside.
> 
> Peter turns around before he reaches the door. "Did you see any action at all?"
> 
> Nathan turns back, confused. "What?"
> 
> "Any battles or combat or anything?"
> 
> He stands very straight, smoothes out his jacket. "Yeah. There was a-- Yeah. I did."
> 
> Peter's not sure why he asks the next question, but it's out of his mouth before he can think. "Were you scared?"
> 
> There's a long pause, and Peter almost thinks he won't get an answer, but he does. "It was the scariest three days of my life."
> 
> Peter doesn't respond, because he's not sure how to. There's a minute of silence: guilty breathing and grieving heartbeats, nothing else.
> 
> "If you come back to the party," Nathan says finally, "brush off your pants. There's dust on the cuffs. You know how Mom is about that." And then he goes inside.
> 
> Peter stays outside until people start streaming out, then goes straight up to bed. He doesn't see Nathan for the rest of the night, and he's glad.

  
Suddenly he feels like a horrible person, but quickly reasons that he had no way of knowing Nathan's "scariest three days" were essentially a suicide mission, even after the rare phone call from Nathan in early March.

He realizes he now knows exactly how his brother felt. He swallows to try and get rid of the lump in his throat, but it lingers through the night.


	5. Part Four (Sylar)

September 23, 2016.  
 _Boston._

The night before they leave for Baltimore, there are too many people and not enough beds, so Peter doesn't sleep. He would normally talk to Claire, but she's not here--she's gone ahead--so he reviews some files, then digs through his bag looking for things he can leave behind, and finds the gold pocket watch at the bottom. He'd almost forgotten about it.

>   
> _November, 2006._
> 
> Going nuclear, it turns out, hurts. A lot. He feels like he's on fire and being crushed from the inside out at the same time, and the only things keeping him together are sheer willpower and Nathan's arms around him. He tries to push away, begs him to let go, but stupid, stubborn Nathan just holds him even tighter.
> 
> _You go, I go_ , he yells, and somehow Peter hears it over the rush of air and the pounding of his heart.
> 
> He claws at Nathan's chest, kicks his shins, tries anything, but by the time he finally lets go, it's too late, he can't contain it anymore. The last thing he feels before the flash of white light is blinding pain, and he forgets everything else.
> 
> Seconds later, he's regrown himself, he feels all jumbled up and wrong, and he remembers: _Nathan_. He catches his brother, mid-fall, and flies as fast as he can back towards Manhattan. He sets down in an alleyway, two blocks from Roosevelt Hospital, because even though he's covered in burns and bruises, and probably in shock, Nathan's trying to say something. Peter shushes him as he takes off his shirt and wads it up underneath Nathan's head. "Don't talk, Nathan, you need to be still."
> 
> "Peter," he mumbles, but Peter shushes him with a hand on his chest. He blinks his good eye and tries to smile with the good side of his mouth, but it turns into a painful wince instead.
> 
> Peter scrambles to stand up, but Nathan weakly grabs at his arm. "I need to get you some help," Peter says, gently. "I need to--"
> 
> _Don't leave me,_ says a voice in his head. It's half Nathan's voice, and half a little-boy voice Peter's never heard before. It scares him, but he swallows and it's gone.
> 
> He kneels down, takes Nathan's blistered hand in both of his and raises it to his mouth. "I'm so sorry, Nathan," he whispers, trying to hang on to the last bit of calm inside of himself.
> 
> Nathan tries to speak again, but can't. _Not your fault,_ he thinks, and Peter has to bite his tongue to keep the lump in his throat from rising any further.
> 
> "I love you," he says thickly, and smiles so Nathan won't know he's about to fall apart all over again.
> 
> _Love you too._ And then, there's nothing.
> 
> Peter's immediate reaction is to repeat his brother's name over and over, louder and louder, as if he was sleeping and Peter was trying to wake him up, getting wetter around the edges each time. He tries to concentrate, tries everything he knows to resuscitate him, but when nothing happens, the string of _nonononono_ s that comes out of his mouth is involuntarily: he only stops when he needs to take a breath--one big, gulping breath--and then all that comes out are heaving sobs and pleas to God and anyone else who will listen. Suddenly, his stomach clenches, and without letting go of Nathan's hand, he turns around to retch onto the asphalt. When he turns back, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand, there's someone standing in the alley, silhouetted against the glow coming from the street. The figure starts walking towards him, and he stands up, defensively.
> 
> The man comes into view under a dim streetlight. Peter recognizes him, but doesn't really know who he is until he speaks, and the Creole accent gives him away.
> 
> "We must go. Now," he says.
> 
> Peter sniffs, nods, and bends down to pick Nathan up in his arms when the Haitian man interrupts him.
> 
> "We cannot take him."
> 
> Peter looks up, tries to will his jaw to stop shaking. "Like hell we can't," he finally spits out. "He's my brother, I can't just leave him here."
> 
> "You can, and you must. There is nothing more we can do for him. It is too dangerous."
> 
> Confusion slowly turns into anger, somewhere deep in his chest. "Dangerous? Do you think I care about--"
> 
> "There are people who are looking for you, and only God knows what will happen if they find you." Peter looks down at Nathan, and the Haitian continues. "You must come with me if you do not want them to." He pauses, waits for Peter to look up at him, his voice softening slightly. "Nathan was not part of this plan. There is no room for him." Then, as an afterthought, even softer, "I am very sorry."
> 
> Peter knows he can't stay here, and if he remembers correctly, he can trust this man, so he agrees, and then asks for a minute to say goodbye. "Sixty seconds won't make a difference, right?"
> 
> "Sixty seconds," the Haitian says, only a little reluctantly. "No more." He turns away and paces back towards the street, half keeping guard and half giving Peter privacy.
> 
> He sits next to Nathan--no, not Nathan, just Nathan's body, he thinks, like the bodies in the morgue--and it surprises him that he's still warm. The eye that isn't destroyed by radiation is swollen and half-open; his mouth on the same side is pressed together into a thin line. He smells like burnt flesh and desperation, and Peter doesn't know what to do. He wants to shake him, hard, to slap his face, to scream at the top of his lungs, but he knows that's not what he should do, not with only a minute, so he takes a deep breath, and lets words bubble up out of his chest, and they surprise him: "That was a stupid thing to do, Nathan. Stupid and noble and--and selfless and-- _goddammit_ , Nathan." He sniffs and swallows, trying to force his throat open so he doesn't feel like he's choking even though he's naked from the waist up. "I know you said it wasn't my fault, but I--" He runs his thumb along an oblong patch of skin under his chin that's pristine compared to the rest of him. "I'm so sorry." He shakes his head, then leans over to kiss Nathan's singed forehead, feeling the blistering and burning acutely against his lips. "I'll make this right," he whispers, "I promise you that." As he sits up, he notices a glint of something coming from Nathan's jacket pocket. He looks closer: it's a chain. A watch chain. He grabs it, quickly, and stuffs it in his front pocket. He closes Nathan's one eye with two fingers, and lets his hand linger on Nathan's chest for as long as he can as he stands up. He walks away quickly, without looking back, wiping down his face and his neck with his hand, sighing deeply, cleansing himself for the task ahead.
> 
> The Haitian turns to face him. "Are you ready?"
> 
> "Let's go," Peter says, and goes invisible.
> 
> The Haitian buys him some new clothes, then hails a black cab. Once they're inside, he hands a piece of paper to the driver and says to drive to that address, that he will pay any and all fees. Then he closes the window between the front seat and the back seat, tells Peter it's safe to appear again, and hands him the bag with the new shirt and pants, tells him to change. Peter does, and at some point realizes they're headed towards the Bronx.
> 
> "Where are we going?" he asks stupidly, because as soon as he says it, he knows the answer.
> 
> "To see your mother."
> 
> Peter exhales. "That's how I know you."
> 
> "You remember." The Haitian almost-smiles, but it's comforting just the same.
> 
> They ride in silence for a few minutes, watching the city slip away, streetlight by streetlight, and then the thought finally, finally enters his mind: _Nathan is dead_. It nearly knocks the wind out of him, until he realizes he's met Hiro Nakamura.
> 
> "Let me go back," he says to the other side of the car.
> 
> "No," comes the response.
> 
> "But I can change this--I can--" He takes a breath, lets it out. "I can save him."
> 
> "No," comes again.
> 
> "Why not?" He feels his inner defiant ten-year-old seeping out of his pores, but he doesn't care.
> 
> The Haitian turns to him. "Because there are risks involved that you cannot understand right now. Because you're not thinking rationally. Because--" He stops, gathers himself. "Because there are some things, no matter how hard you try, you simply cannot change."
> 
> Peter closes his eyes and tries to teleport away, but when he opens them again, nothing has changed. He suddenly knows: "You're the one that blocks abilities. You--you're the one Claire told me about."
> 
> "Yes," he says, plainly.
> 
> And then Peter remembers everything Claire said. "You take away memories."
> 
> "Yes," he says again. "And no, I will not do it for you."
> 
> "But I can't do this," he says heavily, in the back of his throat. "I can't live with this."
> 
> "You can," the Haitian says, "and you must. You will be a great man one day, Peter. You need this."
> 
> "I don't _need_ this," he spits. "I don't _want_ this."
> 
> "If I take tonight away from you, you will never know what happened to your brother."
> 
> "Then make me forget him. Make me forget I ever had a brother. Please. Please, I'm begging you."
> 
> "No," the Haitian says gently, turning to look out the window.
> 
> "Why not, goddammit!" Peter punches the leather behind him, nearly tearing a hole in it.
> 
> The Haitian looks straight at him, grabs his arm to make sure he pays attention. "Because if I make you forget, if I take him away from you, you will never, ever be whole again. And worse, you will never know why. And that, my friend, is a fate worse than death."
> 
> "Then kill me," Peter says softly. "Please."
> 
> "I am not a killer."
> 
> He leans his head back against the headrest, squeezes his eyes shut.
> 
> "You will be a great man one day, Peter," the Haitian says, placing emphasis on every word except his name.
> 
> "You keep saying that," he says without opening his eyes.
> 
> "No. Your mother keeps saying that."
> 
> He looks over, and realizes they've stopped.
> 
> "Hide yourself," the Haitian says, so Peter does. He pays the cabbie with a roll of twenties and Peter closes the car door before practically running up to the house. The door opens before he can get his hand on the knob. His mother is standing in the doorway, and he reappears in front of her almost immediately.
> 
> "Peter," she says, breathlessly, and hugs him tightly. He holds onto her as if for dear life. He only reluctantly lets go when she asks about Nathan. "He said he had something to take care of before he--" She gets a look at Peter's face, and knows something is wrong. "What happened?"
> 
> Peter looks to the floor, pressing his mouth together. He has two false starts before he finally gets it out: "It was an accident."
> 
> "An accident?" Her eyes are wide and she's distancing herself from him. "Peter, what happened?"
> 
> "He's dead," Peter manages to choke out.
> 
> With only a dry half-sob, she drops to her knees, and the Haitian goes to her side and holds her up. "That's not what's supposed to happen," she says vaguely.
> 
> "He took me up," he says, helplessly, "and he--I tried to make him let go, but he just wouldn't, and then he was falling and then he was--then he was dead. I'm so sorry, Mom, I--"
> 
> She stands up, gathers herself, brushes bits of carpet from her knees. She's still a little shaky, but she still manages to ask, "Who knows?"
> 
> "What?" Peter says with breathless disbelief.
> 
> "Who saw what happened? Who knows?"
> 
> He decides to indulge her, if only to find out why she's asking. "I don't know, Claire was there, and Noah--"
> 
> She turns to the Haitian. They have a brief exchange in French, and he leaves.
> 
> "What is he gonna do?" Peter asks, following him out with his eyes.
> 
> "He's going to--" She pauses, looks at him with tearful eyes. "Keep you safe."
> 
> "And how exactly is he going to do that?"
> 
> She almost answers, then says something else. He tries to get the original thought out of her head, but she's shut down already. "You didn't do this," she says, looking him up and down, calm and collected.
> 
> "Yes, I did," he says, stepping towards her.
> 
> She puts up a hand and he stops. "There are people who--" She stops, starts again. "You're going to be a great man one day, Peter, and this--this will get you killed. So if you want to stay alive--" she presses her mouth together, takes his hand in both of hers "--Sylar did this."
> 
> "He's dead, too," he says flatly.
> 
> "Even better," she says, raising her eyebrows and running her thumb against his chin. She walks into the sitting room, as if that was the end of the conversation. He follows.
> 
> "You're serious."
> 
> She turns around. "Of course I'm serious."
> 
> "I can't lie, Mom."
> 
> "Yes you can." And as she walks away from him again, the phone rings. They exchange glances, and he walks over to answer it. It's Heidi, crying. She saw on the news that a local politician was dead and she couldn't get a hold of Nathan and no one would answer her questions and she didn't know if it was him lying there on the sidewalk under the sheet or not--
> 
> "It's him," Peter says, and almost has to sit down when she wails in his ear.
> 
> Once she calms down, she asks, "What happened?"
> 
> "It was--" He looks up, catches his mother's eye, feels something deflate in his chest. "It was a man named Sylar," he says, and Mom relaxes her shoulders, and he hates it.

  
It's nearly dawn by the time he looks up. Time to go. He puts the watch in the cigar box, and pulls a single picture out, which he shoves in his pocket, not really caring if it gets destroyed or not.

Molly's waiting with a few of the younger girls, to see everyone off. She's rubbing her belly and arching her back. "One more month," she says as Peter approaches her, but he's not here to make small talk.

"I want you to have this," he says, handing her the box. "These belonged to Simon's father. There's a watch in there. It's an heirloom for your baby."

She stares at him, confused and perhaps slightly frightened.

"You take care of yourself, all right?" He kisses her forehead and goes to leave, but she grabs his arm and pulls him slightly away from everyone else.

"I was at Kirby Plaza," she says, eyes wide. "I don't remember it, but I know I was there." She stops, wets her lips, lowers her eyes. "Your brother didn't deserve what happened. No one deserves that."

He exhales, although he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. "Thanks."

"Good luck," she says.

He smiles sadly at her, then turns to go.

 

September 24, 2016.  
 _Baltimore._

They take the train to Baltimore. Their contingent is spread out in the entire train, but Simon's sitting right across from him, hands folded nervously in his lap. He reaches over and touches his nephew's arm.

"It'll be all right," he says, but that doesn't help at all. He moves to a different part of the train, reviews the plan with people one-by-one. It's tedious, but he has time.

They arrive at the platform with a few minutes to spare. Everyone wanders in perfect chaos, and they all eventually meet behind the main building. Claire is acting as lookout while there's a headcount (all 423, present and accounted for), and then they scatter again. They'll meet up at the pavilion. He walks in a spiral pattern on autopilot (he never thought that ability would be useful), and pulls the picture out of his pocket. It's a picture of him and Nathan, when he was just days old. The thick white edges are tattered, and there's a fold going diagonal across the top right corner. He smoothes the crease with his thumb.

>   
> _December, 1997._
> 
> It's nearly midnight before the last handful of guests have left for the night. Peter's holed up in his room, reading through the pile of cards he received when there's a half-hearted knock on the door. He looks up: it's Nathan, with a beer in each hand and a smirk on his face.
> 
> "Hey," Peter says, and keeps rifling through the cards.
> 
> "Mind if I come in?" Nathan asks, his speech about as steady as his steps as he doesn't wait for an answer, but shakily navigates his way to the other side of Peter and sits (nearly falls, actually) down almost directly on top of a few cards. Peter saves them, and saves Nathan's ass from being covered in sparkles.
> 
> Peter's slightly annoyed, but then Nathan's grinning stupidly at him and he can't help himself. He smiles. "No, I don't mind."
> 
> Nathan unceremoniously shoves one of the open bottles in Peter's face. "Brought ya a beer."
> 
> Peter snorts and gently pushes his hand down. "I'm turning eighteen, not twenty-one. C'mon, you're the lawyer here."
> 
> "Well as the _lawyer here_ ," Nathan slurs, forgetting for a moment what's in his hands and gesticulating just enough to spill some foam onto his thigh, "I sanction this drink. Because a man can always drink with his little brother." He pauses, waits for Peter's half-amused, half-skeptical expression to change. When it doesn't, he continues: "And if you can't finish it, I will."
> 
> "Nathan, I don't think you should even finish _your_ drink."
> 
> Nathan shifts his weight. "Well, you might'a heard my kid brother's turning eighteen tomorrow? And it's kinda freaking me out." He looks over, expectantly.
> 
> Peter rolls his eyes and takes the bottle. "Yeah, it's kind of freaking him out, too." He pauses. "But if you get sick--"
> 
> "Look, I'm fine," Nathan says, sounding a little more sober, but still stumbling over the "k" sound. "I'll just take a handful of Tylenol and have a bottle of water waiting for me when I wake up. Trust me, Pete, I have been much, much drunker than this and I haven't gotten sick."
> 
> "If you get sick," Peter calmly says again, "don’t do it on my bed, please?"
> 
> Nathan chuckles. "You got yourself a deal, kid," he says, and knocks their bottles together. Peter sees him watching out of the corner of his eye as they both take a drink. Peter winces, the sharpness of the alcohol stinging the back of his throat. He hasn't quite recovered yet when Nathan hands over his bottle, simply saying, "Hold this." Peter does, and Nathan nearly tips himself over rummaging through his back pocket. He trades the small package in his hand for his beer. "Gotcha something."
> 
> "You already got me--" Peter starts.
> 
> "The cufflinks were from me and _Heidi_ ," Nathan says, and takes half a sip from his bottle. "This is just from me."
> 
> "Nathan--"
> 
> "I know." Nathan slings an arm around Peter's neck. "Just open it." And he takes another drink. "And if anyone asks, all I got you were those cufflinks."
> 
> Peter leans forward despite Nathan's heavy arm across his shoulders and sets his beer on his desk, then tears into the brown paper around what looks like it could be a business card holder, or--
> 
> "A magnet?" he asks upon seeing the two strips on the back of a piece of plastic.
> 
> "Turn it over." Nathan's smiling.
> 
> There, encased in plastic, is a teenage boy holding a tiny bundle of blankets in his arms. Peter recognizes the furniture around them.
> 
> "Is this us?"
> 
> Nathan tilts his head. "Figured you might be moving away soon, wanted to give you something for your fridge." He lingers a bit on the word _away_ , and it makes Peter's chest hurt.
> 
> "I love it," he says, and he means it. Nathan actually had to go somewhere to get this made, which says something about how much he wanted to give it to Peter. His ears tingle.
> 
> "I thought you might," Nathan murmurs. He sets his beer down on the night table on the other side of him, then gets his face very close to Peter's. Comfortably close, but still close. "You know, I never told you this, but when you were a baby, I hated you."
> 
> Peter can't help but laugh, though he's not sure why. "Thanks, Nathan," he says sarcastically.
> 
> "Hang on hang on, lemme finish," Nathan says. "You were _ugly_ and _smelly_ and _loud_ and you took up all of Mom's time and I was what, twelve? I thought the world revolved around _me_. You can see," he takes the magnet out of Peter's hand, points to his younger, sour face with his thumb, "I did _not_ want to hold you. At all." He hands the magnet back. Peter places it on the desk next to his beer. "But…" he starts.
> 
> "But…" Peter echoes, sitting down again.
> 
> "There was this one day, I was supposed to be watching you in the den, and I was _there_ , but I was reading or something, and you were in the corner, playin' with stuff and Mom and Dad were talking in the other room and I looked up and you were pulling yourself up on a chair." He mimes the pulling up as best he can with one arm stretched over Peter's shoulders. "And for a second I didn't even realize it but--you were _walking_. And I knew you'd never walked before because if you had, Mom would have sent out cards to everyone and their grandmother. So I called for them but they got there just in time to see you fall on your ass." He cracks up during the last phrase, and Peter laughs at the appropriateness of that timing. "But I was so _proud_ of you," Nathan continues, "and from then on, I couldn't hate you. 'Cause you're my brother." Peter has to half-smile to stop himself from spilling his guts out. Fortunately, Nathan has more to say. "I know you're not one of Dad's soldiers like me, but--I'm still proud of you." He pulls Peter closer with the arm around his neck. "Happy birthday, kid." A wet kiss and a warm _i love you_ against his cheek gives him a little swell of courage and strength in his chest. He turns and leans in, practically holding his breath.
> 
> He's done this before, and Nathan's pushed him away, asked him what the hell he was doing. He would laugh it off, _just kidding around_ , but Nathan always knew. This time, however, Nathan does nothing of the sort. Peter closes his eyes before he presses his mouth against Nathan's, and tries to will his heart to slow down (he's afraid it'll explode). It's not really a kiss, it's too dry and timid to be a _kiss_ , but it's close enough to satisfy the curiosity at the back of his throat. (He's not surprised, but yes, he _likes_ it.) He opens his eyes and moves slightly away, very aware of the weight of Nathan's arm on his shoulder.
> 
> And then, before he can stop the words from coming out, he says, "You must be _really_ drunk."
> 
> Nathan shushes him, presses a finger to his lips, trails it down his chin. "You realize how fucked up this is, right? I mean, I was just talking about--"
> 
> "Do you want me to stop?"
> 
> Their eyes meet for a brief moment before Nathan bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. "No."
> 
> Peter sighs in relief, only realizing then that he'd almost forgotten how to breathe. "Good," he mumbles, and kisses him properly.

  
He opens his eyes, and they've stopped. People already at the pavilion when he gets there, hidden everywhere, masking themselves. He lurks around, checking to see where everyone is. Simon's missing, and even though he has a bad feeling about it, he convinces himself that nephew is just late, because he can't worry about that now. They wait until the appointed time, when the motorcade is supposed to come through and nothing happens. Another five minutes, nothing. Ten minutes--nothing.

Then suddenly, there's a man beside him--the Haitian.

"I do not know where Simon goes," he says plainly.

Peter turns back in disbelief. "I thought you could block his ability."

"I can, he's not using it. Every time I followed him, he just disappears into the crowd."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I could not find you until today."

Peter realizes that's probably true--he's been hiding himself more and more as this moment has gotten nearer and nearer. There's only one person he knows who can make someone else disappear, though. He goes invisible, repositions himself and readjusts his eyes to see further. There are six men, dressed in all black, walking down the road towards them. Five of them have guns. He suddenly understands: these men know they're coming.

"Get out of here," he says to the Haitian without turning around. "Go back to the house."

"You need me." He does have a point, but--

"We'll need you more if we make it out of here alive. Go."

He leaves without another word. Peter finds Claire and tells her to pull everyone back.

"What?" she whispers harshly. "No, no way. Not after all this planning and--"

"It's a trap," he says. "They know we're here. Pull everybody back."

And then, before he can say anything else, an icy voice rings out against the concrete and asphalt. "Come out, come out, wherever you are..." it teases.

Claire's eyes go wide, and she moves away, gathering everyone up.

"I know you're there, Peter," the voice says again, so he steps out into the open with his hands raised.

"Hello, Gabriel," he says, and the five men with guns point them at him. The unarmed man just turns to him with a smile on his face.

"My name is Sylar," he corrects, calmly.

"You can fool the President, but you can't fool me," Peter says confidently.

Sylar just laughs contemptuously and walks up to him. "You look _awful_ ," he says with mock concern, and starts walking around him.

Peter lets his mouth curl up a little at the ends: not a smile, but not nothing. "How did you know we were here?"

"Oh, a little bird told me," Sylar says. "Would you like to meet him?" He waves one gloved hand at the five men behind him (Peter now sees they're a cross between SWAT and Secret Service), and a sixth man comes out of the shadows, carrying someone with a hood over their head into view. Sylar pulls off the hood, dramatically, but Peter already knows it's--

"I'm so sorry," Simon says, sounding like he's begging for his life. Peter senses his defenses are down, so he reads his mind, but before he can say anything, he hears Claire jump out from the bushes behind him.

" _What?_ " she nearly shouts. He turns back to see she's got her gun drawn. He wasn't even aware she still had it. Three of the five gunmen point their weapons at her, unaware that she's not afraid.

"Claire, _no_ ," he says, holding up a hand to her. He looks back at Simon. "He did it for his family."

" _We're_ his family," Claire says, not yet holstering her gun.

He looks back at her again. "That's not what I meant."

"He threatened Molly," Simon says in that same pleading tone. "He said he was gonna kill her."

Peter looks from Simon to Sylar. "You _let_ him go."

Sylar just smiles, a little too widely. "You didn't think I'd let the same boy get away twice by accident, did you?" He turns around, starts weaving through the gunmen, stopping right next to Simon. "And I promised him something else." He leans down, and practically whispers into Simon's ear, "Tell your uncle what I promised you."

Simon looks at Peter. "He said he'd tell me what really happened to my father."

Peter can feel Claire tensing behind him, but she doesn't draw her gun again. "You son of a bitch," he says to Sylar.

"Don't talk about my mother like that," Sylar snips. Then, back in the cool tone of someone with a plan, "Don't you want him to know the truth?"

"You have no right--"

" _I_ have no right? I'm the one being falsely accused here!" He sidesteps away, meandering back through his men to the open space Peter is occupying. "I liked it for a while, I'll admit. It was thrilling, being the most feared man on the planet! But I'm just _tired_ of lying, aren't you? Don't you think the boy deserves to know what happened that night? Don't you think _everyone_ deserves to know what happened that night?"

Peter just stares, tight-lipped, hands still away from his body. Sylar's holding everyone in place so they can't run, and he's trying to free them, trying to form a plan of attack, but his head is so clouded that he just can't.

"Tell them who killed Nathan," Sylar says, right in Peter's face again, narrowing his eyes.

"Don't you dare say his name ever again," Peter spits at him.

"Tell them!" Sylar shouts, and it echoes a little too long.

He hates Sylar, for everything he's done, but he knows: they're both tired of lying. So he takes a deep breath and says, just loud enough for Simon to hear it, "I did."

"What's that?" Sylar says, cupping his ear dramatically. "I don't think everyone got that. Who killed your brother?"

"I did," Peter says much louder. "I killed Nathan." He looks at Simon, whose eyes are practically shooting bullets at him.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Sylar taunts, circling again.

"It was an accident," Peter tells Simon. "I didn't mean to, I loved him."

"You can make all the excuses you want, Petrelli," Sylar says. "It was still you that did it. Is that why you haven't flown since that night? Because of your _guilt_ and not your _grief_?"

"Shut up," Peter says through clenched teeth. He feels anger--real anger, not frustration or annoyance--rising in his chest for the first time in a long time. He's not sure what's going to happen.

"Ooh, touchy subject?" Sylar says with false sympathy. "It's just as well, I never saw it as a power worth stealing anyway."

"Shut up," Peter repeats.

"Well, if I didn't kill your brother, your whole story just crumbles, doesn't it? Our rivalry means nothing." He's spiraling in closer.

"You've killed so many people, rivalry doesn't matter." It's taking all his strength not to throw himself at Sylar while all those kids--practically children, including Simon--are so close by.

"Oh, but it does," Sylar says. "It's everything. We're the Titans, Peter. The main event. It all comes down to you and me."

"You killed my mother," Peter says, narrow-eyed.

Sylar smiles perversely. "Oh right, I almost forgot. She said hi, by the way." He toes at the ground, almost daring Peter to make a move. "She told me about some _comics_ she had commissioned, where she painted you as some great man." He looks Peter up and down. "You don't look so great standing in front of me. You don't even have any weapons."

"I don't need weapons for you, you know that," Peter says, and calms himself.

"Yes, well, she said the last issue would never make it to the publisher, so I don't know how the story ends." He squints at him, a little evilly. "And neither do you."

"You're right," Peter says matter-of-factly. "So since we're such _gentlemen_ ," he says sarcastically, "why don't we leave all these innocents out of it?"

"But wasn't it you that brought them as human shields? And you call me a murderer." He makes an exaggerated sound of disapproval.

"I haven't murdered anyone who wouldn't have begged for it anyway once you let them go."

"And your brother? Did he _beg_ for it?"

Peter pushes the rage down again, and he knows this is all part of the game, but he's not sure how much longer he can hold out. "Nathan made his own choice. I didn't ask him to do what he did. I tried to save him." He looks at Simon, who has gone from furious to terrified. "I tried to save him," he repeats, a little softer, and Simon understands.

Sylar grins at Peter. "You're right, we shouldn't have the masses get tangled up in this mess." He snaps his fingers and lets them all go, then tells his bodyguards to release Simon back to his people.

Peter turns to Claire and now Simon, and says, "Run."

"Where?" she asks, but she's thinking _don't make me leave you_. He has to swallow to stop himself from responding to that instead.

"Anywhere, just _go_ ," he says, and after a minute, everyone is moved out, including the men dressed in black.

"They're gone," Sylar says when he sees Peter checking for booby traps and unseen defenses.

"I don't trust you." When he's done, he faces Sylar, legs in a wide, steady stance.

"Shall we?" Sylar proposes, Peter nods, and then there's a great flash of light.

They throw fire and ice at each other. They each try to push and pull the other around without ever touching. Peter stops time, just for a moment, but Sylar can move in it, too. He's stronger than Peter, but Peter's got more skills to utilize. And then, suddenly, Sylar grabs his wrist, and he feels like his soul is being sucked out of it. His leg was broken a few minutes ago, and now it is again, so he falls to the ground, trying to throw lightning, water, anything but nothing comes out.

"What did you do to me?" Peter calls out as Sylar climbs up the building on the edge of the pavilion and hides behind the chimney.

"I'm sorry, Peter, I thought I told you about that one. It doesn't really work on anyone else, I almost forget I have it. I call it the reset button."

He thinks he knows what that means, but he can't think about it for too long because his leg hurts so much that he can't help but wish he had Claire's power back, so he thinks back to learning how to control his rampant empathy and he thinks of Claire--and then his leg is healed. He's lost his super-memory, so he can't recall all the faces, all the people he's met, but he gathers a few--gains back a few abilities, but none that will help him get back up on that roof.

"Come out here, you coward!" Peter shouts. He knows the only way to get up there, but he doesn't know if he can do it.

"Sorry, Peter," Sylar shouts back, and then he sees the black-clad gunmen coming back for him. He closes his eyes, imagines, in his mind, Nathan: the sound of his voice, the smell of his suits, the weight of his arm across his shoulders. It's enough.

The gunmen approach faster, looping around so they can get at the back of his head, but before they can get close enough--much to everyone's astonishment including his own--Peter Petrelli takes a deep breath, and flies.


End file.
